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.dt The Black Barque, by T. Jenkins Hains
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Transcriber’s Note:
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effects. Italics are delimited with the ‘_’ character as _italic_.
Footnotes have been moved to follow the paragraphs in which they
are referenced.
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Footnotes have been collected at the end of each chapter, and are
linked for ease of reference.
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see the transcriber’s #note:endnote# at the end of this text
for details regarding the handling of any textual issues encountered
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The cover image has been created based on title page information,
and is placed in the public domain.
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THE BLACK BARQUE
A Tale of the Pirate Slave-Ship
Gentle Hand
on Her Last African Cruise
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A Tale of the Pirate Slave-Ship
Gentle Hand
on Her Last African Cruise
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Works of
T. JENKINS HAINS
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.ta l:40 r:8 w=80%
The Windjammers | $1.50
The Black Barque | 1.50
The Voyage of the Arrow | 1.50
Bahama Bill | 1.50
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L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
New England Building
BOSTON\ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ MASS.
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.bn 004.png
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“SPRANG WITH THE EASE OF A CAT UPON OUR POOP-RAIL.”
(See page 227)
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The | Black Barque
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A Tale of the Pirate Slave-Ship
Gentle Hand
on Her Last African Cruise
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.nf c
By
T. JENKINS HAINS
AUTHOR OF
“THE STRIFE OF THE SEA,” “THE WIND-JAMMERS,” ETC.
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Illustrated by
W. HERBERT DUNTON
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BOSTON
L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
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.sp 8
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Copyright, 1905
By L. C. Page & Company
(INCORPORATED)
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All rights reserved
.sp 8
.nf c
Published February, 1905
Fifth Impression, March, 1908.
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COLONIAL PRESS
Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co.
Boston, Mass., U.S.A.
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.bn 007.png
.pb
.nf c
TO THE
MEMORY OF MY GRANDFATHER
Thornton Jenkins
REAR-ADMIRAL UNITED STATES NAVY
AND HIS COUSIN
Sir Robert Jenkins, K.C.B.
VICE-ADMIRAL ROYAL NAVY
WHOSE SERVICES TO THE BLACK MAN SHOULD NOT
BE FORGOTTEN
THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED
.nf-
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.bn 009.png
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.pn v
.sp 4
.h2
CONTENTS
.hr 20%
.ta r:8 l:40 r:6
| | PAGE
I.| I Seek a New Ship | #1#
II.| Captain Howard | #8#
III.| The Barque | #18#
IV.| Shanghaied | #30#
V.| In the Fo’c’sle | #39#
VI.| I Become “Cock of the Walk” | #48#
VII.| Two Kinds of Hand-shakes | #55#
VIII.| Our Bos’n | #65#
IX.| I Make Another Friend | #72#
X.| Yankee Dan and His Daughter | #81#
XI.| We Make a Day of It | #92#
XII.| How the Day Ended | #100#
XIII.| A Surprising Salute | #107#
XIV.| I Decide to Leave the Barque | #117#
XV.| Others Decide Otherwise | #128#
XVI.| A Taste of Cold Iron | #135#
XVII.| Sir John and Miss Allen | #144#
XVIII.| The Barque Has Ill Luck | #152#
XIX.| And Still More Ill Luck | #162#
XX.| What Happened in Madeira | #171#
XXI.| The Strange Brig | #180#
XXII.| “Stand to It!” | #188#
XXIII.| What the Captain’s Chest Held | #198#
XXIV.| The Captain Shows His Mettle | #207#
XXV.| We Hear of Long Tom | #218#
XXVI.| We Repel Boarders | #225#
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.pn +1
XXVII.| Our Captive | #233#
XXVIII.| My First Glimpse of Slavery | #241#
XXIX.| We Lay in Our Cargo | #248#
XXX.| I Suspect Treachery | #254#
XXXI.| I Meet Cortelli | #264#
XXXII.| Open Mutiny | #273#
XXXIII.| The Fight on Deck | #280#
XXXIV.| The Cargo Breaks Loose | #288#
XXXV.| Our Last Chance | #296#
XXXVI.| The End of the Black Barque | #305#
XXXVII.| The Last Strand of My Yarn | #313#
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THE SHIP’S COMPANY
OF THE
Gentle Hand
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OFFICERS
.pm start_list
William Howard, master.
Richard Hawkson, first officer.
John Gull, second officer.
Sherman Henry, third officer.
.pm end_list
.ce
CREW
.pm start_list
Peter Richards, American, boatswain.
John Heywood, American, gunner (who relates the story).
.pm end_list
.ta l:35 |l:35
Able Seamen | Ordinary Seamen
Tim, American | Johnson, Dane
Bill, Norwegian | Jones, Welshman
Heligoland, Norwegian| Anderson, Swede
Guinea, Dago | Holmberg, Swede
Ernest, German | Jennings, Dutch
Martin, Scotch | Pete, Dago
Johns, German | Tom, Cockney
Jorg, Finn | Jim, Englishman
Pat, Irishman | Gilbert, half-breed Kanaka
Gus, Swede | Johnson, Norwegian
| Pacetti, Dago
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Watkins, steward | The “Doctor,” cook
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OWNERS AND PASSENGERS
.ta l:2 h:60
|Yankee Dan, of Nassau, trader (Daniel Allen).
|Rose Allen, his daughter.
|Lord Renshaw, an outcast from society, with money in the enterprise.
|Sir John Hicks, bankrupt, engaged in the slave traffic.
|Mr. Curtis, engaged in the slave traffic.
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.sp 4
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The Black Barque
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.h2
CHAPTER I. | I SEEK A NEW SHIP
.sp 2
When I struck the beach in Havre, the war with
England had turned adrift upon that port’s dock
heads a strange assortment of men. Many had
served in either the American or English navy, and
many more had manned French privateers and had
fought under Napoleon’s eagles. The peace that
had followed turned hordes of these fighting men
into peaceable merchant sailors without ships, and
they drifted about without definite means of support.
I had come over from the States in an old tub of
a barque called the Washington, after having served
as mate for two years on the schooner General
Greene. The war had taught me something, for I
had served in the navy in one of the South Pacific
cruises, and had fought in the frigate Essex. I was
.bn 014.png
.pn +1
only a boy in years, but the service--and other
matters hardly worth mentioning here--had hardened
my nature and developed the disagreeable side
of my character. I was mate of the old hooker,
and could have made out well enough if the captain
hadn’t been somewhat down on me, for I never
cared especially for women, and I believed my experience
justified my opinion of them,--but no
matter.
The old man seemed to think I couldn’t be happy
without thrashing every day one or more of the
miserable dagoes he had had the assurance to tell
me were sailors, and, after a nasty voyage of fifty
days, I was not sorry to step ashore. I joined the
saturnine pier-enders with my pay and discharge
as being a remarkably hard and quarrelsome mate
with but small experience.
We tied up to one of the long docks, and I had
seen that all the canvas was properly unbent and
stowed below before being notified of my failings.
The dock-jumpers had made their leap, and we
were short-handed enough, so I may have been a
bit out of sorts with the extra work and the prospect
of breaking out the cargo with only four Portuguese
and a third mate, who was the captain’s son.
It wasn’t the work I dodged, however, nor was
it that which caused the outfly. It was started by
this third mate coming aboard with a very pretty
.bn 015.png
.pn +1
girl whom he had met in town. To see him walking
about the main deck with her, when he should
have been hard at work, aggravated me. They said
he was to marry her, and the dagoes kept looking
after him instead of doing what I told them, and
then--well, after it was over I didn’t care very
much.
The only man aboard who seemed interested to
any extent was old Richards, the second mate.
Richards had served on the frigate Essex in her
famous cruise, and after the war he had chosen
to try his hand in merchant ships, for the change
of the man-o’-war’s man’s life from action to slothful
peace had been too much for him. Silent and
thoughtful, he had listened to me and was pained
at my speech. He was called old Richards because
of his quiet manner, although he was not much
over thirty-five, and I bore with his sour looks
while I went to the quarter-deck to finish my little
say with the skipper.
As an American man-o’-war’s man, it was my
duty to invite the captain ashore to prove to him
by the force of my hands that I was the best natured
young fellow afloat. As I was a powerful lad,
and had served two years under him, he had the
good judgment to explain to me that my argument
would prove most illogical, and that if I dared to
lift a hand against him, he would blow a hole
.bn 016.png
.pn +1
through me as big as a hawse-pipe. To lend emphasis
to his statement, he produced a huge horse-pistol,
and, sticking it under my nose so that I
might look carefully down the bore and see what
he had loaded it with, he bade me get hence.
I was not very much afraid of the weapon, so
I gazed carefully into it, while I pronounced some
flattering comments about his birth and the nationality
of his mother. Then, lest I might really appear
quarrelsome to the few knaves who were enjoying
the spectacle, I spat into the muzzle as though it
were the receptacle for that purpose, and, turning
my back upon him, sauntered ashore, followed by
my second mate, whom I thought came to expostulate
with me and bring me to a better humour, and
return.
I was in a somewhat grim humour, but not by
any means quarrelsome. I had lost my ship, but
I had a bit of American gold, and as long as a sailor
has this commodity he is cheerful enough. I had
no sooner landed on the pier than I was accosted
by a little ferret-faced fellow, who seemed busy
nosing around the dock after the manner of a nervous
little dog that noses everything rapidly and
seriously, as though its life depends upon its finding
something it is not looking for.
“Bon jaw,” he said.
I turned upon him and looked into his ugly face.
.bn 017.png
.pn +1
“I’m a Yankee sailor,” said I, “and if you want
any business with me you’ll have to speak something
I understand. And besides,” I added, edging
closer to him, “I don’t allow fellows to talk
about me in a foreign language,--unless I’ve got
a good reason to think they’re saying something
truthful. You savvey? Or I’ll make a handsome
monkey of you by changing that figurehead you’ve
got there.”
A sudden scowl came over the fellow’s face and
went again. “I kin give you all the langwidge
you need, young man, but I was only about to do
you a favour.”
“‘Virtue is its own reward,’” I said, reaching
into my pocket as though for a piece of money.
“Cast loose!”
“It’s on account of that reward I reckon you
don’t practise it,” grinned the fellow. “Perhaps a
more substantial acknowledgment might--”
“Shut up!” I snapped. “If you are an American
or English, let’s have your lay.
“Is it a ship you want me to take? For, if
that’s your game, you better slant away. Don’t
you see I’ve enough ship for the rest of my life,
hey?”
The creature sidled closer to me and attempted
to slip his arm through mine, but I brushed him
away. He flashed that fox-like scowl at me again,
.bn 018.png
.pn +1
his little yellow eyes growing into two points. He
gave me an unpleasant feeling, and I watched his
hands to see if he made any movement. Then I
was more astonished, as I noticed his fingers. They
were enormous.
“Look a-here now, don’t you think we cud do a
bit a bizness without all these here swabs a-looking
on? You look like you had sense enough to go
below when it rains right hard. What! you follow
me? Now there’s a ship without a navigator a-fitting
out not far from here, and, if you’ll come go
along with me, an’ talk the matter over, there’ll
be no harm done except to the spirruts,--an’ they’s
free.”
I was very thirsty and could talk no French, so,
more to be guided to a place to quench my thirst
on good ale than by curiosity, I allowed him to
lead me up the dock. I noticed several of the loungers
upon the pier-head scowl at me as I went my
way, and one tall, fierce-looking fellow, who had
been glancing at me frequently, gradually fell away
from the group of loafers and strolled up behind
us. I paid no further attention to these fellows,
but, as I reached the street with its babble of unfamiliar
language, a sudden feeling came upon
me. I don’t know what it was, but I was only a
boy, and the future seemed dark and lonely. I
turned and looked back at the Washington. She
.bn 019.png
.pn +1
was the only thing American in sight, and the
months I spent aboard her were not to be thrust
aside lightly. They had all been too full of work
and sorrow.
“Good-bye, old barkey,” I cried, holding my
right hand high up,--“good-bye, and may the
eternal God--no, bless you.”
I hastened on to where the ferret-faced fellow
stood grinning at me. He was peculiarly aggressive,
and his shabby unnautical rig only added to
this disagreeable characteristic. Richards followed
slowly behind, his eyes holding a peculiar look as
he joined the little stranger. The man gave a sneer.
“Very sentimental and proper feeling,” said he.
“A ship’s like a person, more or less, an’ when
one gets used to her he don’t like to give her up.”
“What do you know about sentiment, you
swine?” I asked, fiercely. “I’ve a good notion
to whang you for your insolence.”
“A very fine spirit,” he commented, as though
to himself, as he walked ahead, “a very fine spirit
indeed, but guided by a fool. Here’s the ale-house
I spoke of, and the sooner we have a mug or two,
the better.”
.bn 020.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER II. | CAPTAIN HOWARD
.sp 2
I might as well say in the beginning that, while
I have a sailor’s taste for liquor, I’m not especially
noted as a drunkard or spirit-wholloper. By the
latter I mean given to ruffianism or brawling while
under its influence. It is because of a naturally
refined and peaceful disposition that I am so constituted,
and I take no glory on that account. It
is nonsense to suppose all sailors ruffians and all
tales of the sea coarse, because some swabs have
found that the hand of a knowing mate or skipper
lies heavy upon an empty pate. The story of many
voyages on American ships is gentle and uneventful
as the daily run of a lady’s carriage. For evidence,
read their logs. We entered the den of our
little ferret-faced companion, and had no sooner
sat at a table to order the ale than I was aware
of the tall, dour man who had followed us from
the pier-head. My second mate was too much taken
up with the inmates of the place to notice anything
.bn 021.png
.pn +1
else. I might as well confess Richards was a very
pious fellow, and it must have been much against
his wish to have been where he was. The tall man
paid little attention to him, but looked at me.
He did not come into the room, but stood in the
doorway, his fierce eyes fixed upon my face, and
his long, drooping moustache hanging below his
jowls, giving him a most sinister appearance. Our
companion appeared not to perceive his presence
at first, and only when he tilted his mug and threw
his head back did his weasel eyes seem to fall in
with those of the stranger.
“Come in, you terrier!” I cried. “Come in and
have a mug to soak your whiskers in. Sink me,
but barbers must be scarce around here. Soldier
o’ the guard, hey? No one but a Voltigeer-r-r o’
the guard-r-rd would wear such hangers.”
“Young man,” said the stranger, quietly, “your
language is rather unseemly, and should not be
applied to one of the cloth. Hark ye! I am a man
of peace, sir. I am Richard Raymond, chaplain
of the Guerrière frigate. I never indulge.” He
raised a lean, sinewy hand and shook his head
gently at the proffered ale.
“May the devil seize me if you ain’t the holy
joe I’m looking for!” I cried. “Sit down, man,
sit down.”
“Not in such a place. I but came to plead with
.bn 022.png
.pn +1
you not to fill yourself with that liquid. It is ruinous.”
Here he looked across the room where the
proprietor was attending to a group of sailors who
were about a table. “It is ruinous, I say, and
here I implore you not to drink too much. As
a man of God, I ask you, and the chaplain of the
Guerrière,” and he raised his eyes aloft and clasped
his hands as if in prayer. I now noticed his clothes
were somewhat clerical in cut, though shabby. At
this moment, a buxom maid brought some fresh
mugs, foaming full, and I tossed her a piece of
money. She looked at me and smiled, saying something
I failed to understand. Then casting a look
at the tall man in the door, she laughed and went
her way.
“And why not on the frigate now?” I asked
Mr. Raymond, who still seemed to be absorbed
in prayer.
“Lost, man, lost!” said my little companion,
taking a fresh mug. “Don’t you know she was
lost?”
“Well,” I cried, “what difference? Should a
holy man desert his ship any the sooner for being
holy, hey? Answer me that. Why didn’t you get
lost in her? Sink me, but I like a man who will
do something more than talk for the good of a
soul. I like a bit o’ sacrifice now and again to show
the meaning true. I’d like to see our friend drink
.bn 023.png
.pn +1
this mug of ale to save me from the devil, for, if
he’ll drink it, I vow I’ll not buy another for myself.”
“Deliver us from evil,” moaned Raymond. “Oh,
Henry, I couldn’t do it,” and his eyes rolled up.
“So your name is Henry, is it?” I asked my
little companion.
He looked queerly at me.
“Why didn’t you say so before?” I asked,
roughly.
“You never asked me,” said he. “The chaplain
has known me many years.”
“Well,” I cried, rising and advancing upon Mr.
Raymond, “you’ll either drink this ale or get it
in the face, for I’ll not be badgered by every hairy
heaven-yelper I run against. Drink!” and I held
the mug toward him.
His fierce eyes gleamed curiously, and he reached
for the tankard. Then he raised it to his lips, and
the long moustache was buried half a foot in the
foam. When he let it down it was empty. The
next instant something crashed against my head,
and I saw many stars. Then came a blank. It must
have been some minutes before I came to, and,
when I did, I found myself lying upon the floor
with my Mr. Henry and the barmaid wiping the
blood from my face. The tall man had disappeared,
and I struggled to my feet, my head whirling.
Upon the floor lay pieces of the mug.
.bn 024.png
.pn +1
“Did that sky-pilot do it?” I asked, feebly.
Henry grinned.
“Ah, ah, pauvre garçon, pauvre, pauvre--what
eet is, boy? Pauvre boy. C’est poar boy, poar
boy,” said the stout girl, wiping my clothes gently
and laying a hand on my shoulder.
The effect of a little sympathy was strange, especially
from a woman.
“Never mind,” I said, taking her hand from
my shoulder and holding it a moment. “Get some
fresh ale. There is no damage done. If that fellow
was a man of peace, I should not like to come across
his breed as man of war. Sit down, you son of a
fox,” I continued to Henry, “and let’s have your
yarn, and if I see you so much as grin, this shop
will be unlucky.” We drew up again to the table.
“I should think,” said Richards, “you have had
your say long enough now, and would listen to
reason. Steady yourself and get back into some ship
before you get in jail. I don’t care any more for
the hooker you just left than you do, and wouldn’t
go back in her if there was any other vessel wanting
hands.”
“I feel flattered at your attentions, my dear
Peter,” said I. “It is good of you to follow me
to take care of one so young. My morals are pretty
bad, and I need a nurse.”
.bn 025.png
.pn +1
“That is certain,” said the sailor, with conviction
that angered me not a little.
Richards’s manner was a bit trying to me at all
times when I wanted to have a say, and this time
I lost patience. Yet, when I thought of it afterward,
I saw a steady head would have kept me out
of much trouble. He was a perfectly balanced man.
He would neither lose his head with joy, nor sink
with despair at some seeming desperate trouble.
He had learned this by experience, and his steady
eyes were not those of a dullard. He felt as much
as any one, as I soon learned when I gave him the
sharp edge of my tongue. He was not a large man,
but rather small and wiry. His size, I often thought,
had governed his actions, for aboard ship a small
man cannot talk too loud. Since he had served
with me, I had reason to believe his body had little
to do with his mind.
“Peter,” I said, acidly, “I’m looking for a ship.
Will you go along in her with me?”
“That I will,” he said, but I thought he was
simply falling into my trap to gain time.
“Then, my weasel,” said I, turning to Mr. Henry,
“you have two bully boys at your tow-line, for, sink
me, I’ll hold my mate to his word if I ship in nothing
better than a West Indian sugar-boat. Sail in,
my bully. Let’s have the old tune I’ve heard so
often.”
.bn 026.png
.pn +1
Henry drew up his chair and gloated over us.
We were two good enough men to tempt any sort of
crimp, but, on account of my size, he addressed
himself to me as the leader. I have always had this
happen when there were others around, but I take
no especial note of it, for it was nothing that I was
a well-put-up man. I had nothing whatever to do
with my birth.
“You see,” said he, “I don’t make any bones wot
I’m up to. I’m after men sech as you an’ me. My
father were a Yankee sailor, though my mother
were sech as I have to break the commandment wot
arguefies for a long life every time I think of her.”
“You can honour her memory by keeping her
name off your tongue,” I growled.
“Perhaps so,” he assented; “maybe, but she were
hung right here in this town, and her property
taken, so that’s why I’m lookin’ out fer men wot’s
men. I get ten shillings a head per sailormen, an’
I stands in with the crowd. No shanghai business
with me. It don’t pay. Why should a man ruin
his business just to shanghai one or two men who
will turn against him as soon as they come back,
hey? A matter o’ a pound or two an’ a good name
fer fair dealin’ gone. Oh, no! I don’t run fer bad
ships. I only takes the clippers, an’ I give handsome.”
“What’s the hooker’s name?” I asked.
.bn 027.png
.pn +1
“That’s just what I’m coming to if you’ll only
say the word to go in her. They want a mate, and
they’ll pay a big whack for a good man.”
“Name, you wolf,” I repeated, draining my mug.
“Give the name, or pay for this ale and clear.”
“I’ll take you to her--”
He was interrupted by the entrance of a small
man who strode quickly into the room and sat at
once in an empty chair near the door. As the newcomer
entered, Henry half-rose and saluted, receiving
a slight nod of recognition in return.
“Who’s your friend?” I asked, gruffly.
“Sh-h! not so loud,” and he scowled at me.
“That’s Captain Howard.”
“Who the saints is Captain Howard? Can he
drink ale?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t ask him if I were you. He’s not
a man of peace,” and he looked at me slantwise.
“I see,” I answered, and I looked the stranger
over carefully. He was quite small in stature and
his face was pale. His hands were soft, white, and
effeminate-looking. Upon one finger a huge diamond
sparkled. Just then he turned his gaze to
meet mine, and I must admit his eyes gave me quite
a turn. They were as glassy and expressionless as
those of a fish. His whole smooth face, in fact,
seemed to express nothing but vacancy. I had never
seen a human face so devoid of expression. There
.bn 028.png
.pn +1
was hardly a line in it save about the drooping corners
of his mouth.
“He don’t look dangerous,” I said, with a chuckle.
“However, I’m not hunting trouble, and, if you
think he’ll be offended at my acquaintance, he can
go without it.”
“He’s related to the great English house,--them--them
ar’stocrats, ye know. That’s the way
he’s got the king’s pardon.”
“Pardon for what?” I asked.
He glanced sidewise at me with that ferret look
upon his face. “You’ve heard, sure? No? Well,
then, that’s the skipper that held up the Indian
Prince.”
Then I remembered well enough. He was the
little fellow with the pirate crew that had held up
the big East-Indianman in the China Sea some
years back. It was he who took the treasure and
squandered it in mad riot in the streets of Singapore,
and defied the authorities. Here, indeed, was
the man feared by both whites and savages of the
Eastern seas, sitting in this little ale-house as unconcerned
as though nothing unusual had happened
to excite curiosity. I was so taken up looking at
him and wondering at his foul crimes that he had
received and drunk off his liquor before I realized
what had happened. As he left, I seized my mug
and drank it.
.bn 029.png
.pn +1
“Come along,” I said. “Show me your ship,”
and Mr. Henry paid the score and started for the
door, while I followed. As I reached it, I turned
to see what Richards would do, but he was game.
“Here comes your nourse, sonny,” he said. “I
was paid off yesterday, and don’t mind a change
if it’s for better,” and he looked so serious that I
burst out laughing.
.bn 030.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER III. | THE BARQUE
.sp 2
Henry led the way through the streets until we
came to the anchorage basin beyond the docks. He
was talkative enough, but my head ached from the
blow I had received from the man of peace, and
I paid little attention to the fellow’s words.
We passed a large American ship that had been
captured by the English during the war and sold.
She loomed up grandly from the small craft lying
near, her long, tapering masts still showing the unmistakable
Yankee rigging, and her yards having yet
a vestige of the white American cloth which has
since been a pleasant feature of all our craft. Her
paint was worn off, however, and upon her decks a
mongrel crew chattered away like a pack of monkeys.
I halted a moment and looked at her in disgust.
“What ship is that?” I asked.
“The Independence of Boston. She were taken
by the English line ship St. Marys off Cape St.
Roque. She were stove up some. See that big
piece spliced into her stern where she was shot
.bn 031.png
.pn +1
away. Her mainyard’s fished in two places. Took
two whole broadsides to fetch her to, they say.
That trim-lookin’ craft beyond her is the one we’re
headin’ fer,--the one laying head on with the
foreyards cockbilled.”
We went toward the vessel indicated, and I soon
saw what indeed appeared to be a fine craft. She
was large, probably five hundred tons, but she was
barque rigged, with her mainmast stepped well aft.
Her foreyards were lifted to starboard and her main
were braced to all angles, giving her the appearance
of having been suddenly deserted by her crew after
making port. Upon the spars the white canvas
lay bent and furled, the clews standing out a foot
or two clear of the bunt, and the gaskets hove in
taut as brass bands. Her black sides showed a
good freeboard, but I thought little of this, as nearly
all vessels bound to the westward were going pretty
light at that time. She was coppered, and the top
band was a good half-fathom clear of the water.
She was pierced for six guns on a side, and had
several more ports painted along the bulwarks on
the main-deck, as was the custom of the day. At
a distance she might have been taken for a vessel
of twenty or more guns. Her build was English,
but her rig was Scandinavian, and I noticed her
poop was painted white everywhere except on deck,
after the Yankee fashion.
.bn 032.png
.pn +1
Three heavy boats were slung amidships on
booms. Forward of these a galley was built or
lashed upon the deck, and from its window appeared
the black head of an African. We went close to
the water’s edge and Henry hailed.
“Th-war-bull-yah! Ahoy!” he bellowed.
“What’s her name?” I asked.
“Ha-Yah-Wah, ahoy!” he bellowed again in
answer, and the nigger in the galley waved a white
rag in reply.
“May the sharks eat me, you dock wrastler, but
that’s a queer name for a fine ship! How do you
call her?” I asked.
“He’s comin’ now,” said Henry, with a grin.
“Names is mostly just sounds, an’ furrin sounds
is just like others, only different. We’ll go aboard
her, and you can see the old man an’ settle with him.
Don’t be afraid o’ high pay. He’ll give it.”
In a few minutes a boat left the barque from the
side opposite us, where it had been out of sight.
It rounded under her stern and came toward us,
with the nigger standing aft sculling with the peculiar
swing of the Bahama conch. He landed almost
at our feet, and Henry motioned me to jump aboard.
“Ole man aboard, hey?” asked Henry, stepping
in after me.
“Yassir, disha boat just done taken him abo’d.
He’s done expected mos’ all han’s afo’ dis.”
.bn 033.png
.pn +1
“Well, take us over,” said Henry, and he settled
himself heavily upon a thwart.
In a short time we were alongside. We clambered
up a long hanging ladder amidships, and then over
the rail to the main-deck.
As we did so a venerable, white-haired old fellow
stepped out of the cabin door and greeted us.
Henry took off his cap and bowed with uncommon
civility.
“Captain Watkins, allow me to make known
Mr.--Mr.--”
“Heywood,” I suggested.
“Mr. Heywood,” continued Henry. “He is the
best mate in Havre, an’ is just off the American
ship Washington. I knowed you wanted a good
mate, so I brought you the best in town.”
The old fellow held out his hand gravely, and
said how glad he was to make my acquaintance.
“I am just looking for a good navigator, and
if you’ll come at my terms, I’ll reckon we’ll deal.”
I suggested that the terms be made known.
“Well, I reckon on thirty pound a month is all
I allow just now. Will you consider that?”
As this was five times as much as any mate I
had ever heard of received, I told him I would
consider the matter closed.
“An’ your friend, here. I take it he is an American,
too,--an’ a sailorman from clew to earring.”
.bn 034.png
.pn +1
Richards looked at him steadily.
“You are a right smart of a guesser, Mr. Watkins,”
said he. “I was second in the Washington,
but I’ve been in better ships.”
The insolence of old Peter calling the captain
mister was almost too much for me. Here was a
chance of a lifetime. I turned upon him.
“If you are going to act foolish with one drink
of ale, just for a chance to back down, you better
get ashore,” I snapped.
“I’ve seen many men more sensible drunk than
you are sober, Heywood,” said he, looking calmly
at me, “but I’ll not back down.”
“Will you accept the same terms?” asked the
old man, kindly.
Richards looked at him in scorn. Then he spat
on the white deck.
“I’ll go,” said he, and Captain Watkins turned
to me.
“There is no grog served aboard, and no swearing
on this ship, Mr. Heywood,” said he. “I am
an old man, as you see, and wish my crew orderly
and quiet. Do you wish to stay aboard at once?”
I said I would just as soon turn to at once. The
rate of pay fairly frightened me, and I was afraid
if I went ashore he might get some one else in my
place. The appearance of the barque was much in
her favour. Her decks were as white as holystone
.bn 035.png
.pn +1
could make them, and her gear was all new and
carefully selected. Such lines seldom found place
upon any ships save men-of-war, and her blocks,
with polished brass pins and sheaves, were marvels
to me. I stood idly pulling a topsail brace with
one hand and looking up at the fine rigging, while
Henry talked of his tip for bringing me. Even
the sheer-poles were polished brass. The old fellow
finally led us below, and handed Henry a small
gold piece, and then offered me a few pounds in
advance, requesting me to sign a receipt for the
same. This I did, and then Henry left, shaking
me heartily by the hand as he went over the side.
I returned his grip, for I felt he had indeed been
my friend.
“You may take the port room there, Mr. Heywood,
and put your things shipshape as soon as
Henry gets them off your vessel. If the second
or third mate comes aft to see me, don’t fail to call
me,--er--er, you know I’m quite without officers,
sir, but will probably have both them and a crew
aboard soon. The papers have not been made out
yet, but I believe I have your receipt for your advance.
Witnessed by Henry, it will do, I suppose,
but I am not afraid of you, Mr. Heywood. You
don’t look like a man to take advantage of a ship’s
generosity.” Then he went aft, and I went to the
.bn 036.png
.pn +1
port room. It meant that I was first mate, and I
opened the door with a high heart.
There was nothing at all in the stateroom save
an old clay pipe and a twist of tobacco. The bunk
was bare, and I sat upon the edge of it speculating
upon my good fortune. Finally I lit the pipe and
smoked. The smoke wreaths rolled upward, and,
as I watched them, I built many pleasant things in
the future.
How long I dreamed I don’t know, but it was
quite late in the afternoon when I heard a hail from
the shore that sounded like Henry’s. I went on
deck and met the nigger coming from the galley
to the boat. I noticed what a strapping buck the
fellow was, and he saw me watching him.
“Disha hooker’ll have er crew soon. Yassir,
she will dat,” said he, grinning and showing a row
of teeth almost as pointed and white as those of
a shark. Then he climbed over the rail, and was
soon sculling to the shore, where I saw Henry and
two men waiting.
They came aboard and were ushered into the
cabin by the venerable skipper, whom I had awakened.
“This is Mr. Martin,” said Henry, introducing
the first one with the air of a man presenting a lord.
The fellow pulled off his hat and squared his shoulders,
and then looked somewhat disturbed by this
.bn 037.png
.pn +1
mark of respect. He was clean shaven, with a great
broad head set upon an enormous pair of shoulders.
He was short but powerfully built, and his bright
eyes were restless. He was no drunken ship-rat,
but a strong, healthy sailor.
“Mr. Martin, it gives me pleasure to meet you,
sir. As I understand you wish to sign as second
mate, I present you to Mr. Heywood, the first
officer,” and he nodded to me with a graceful sweep
of the hand. He had evidently forgotten Richards,
but I did not feel inclined to remind him at that
moment.
The fellow looked at me and scowled, at the same
time nodding. This sort of thing was more than
he had expected. Then he broke forth in broad
Scotch that he would sign or go ashore.
“Would twenty pound a month do you?” asked
the skipper, wistfully.
The fellow did not understand. The amount
probably dazed him. Captain Watkins repeated the
offer.
“Weel an’ guid! weel an’ guid!” he cried, slapping
his stout leg. “Let’s have a squint o’ th’
goold.”
“I shall be glad to hand you a few pounds at
once in advance,” said the old skipper. “Please
sign this receipt for four pounds,” and so saying,
he produced the money.
.bn 038.png
.pn +1
The fellow put it in his clothes and signed the
paper at once.
His companion stepped up. He was a Swede and
blond. His blue eyes were bleary with liquor, and
the old man looked at him and shook his head sadly.
“No drinkin’ and no swearin’ aboard here, my
friend--er--er--”
“Anderson,” said Henry.
“No drinking here, Mr. Anderson. If you’ll
accept fifteen pounds a month and three pounds in
advance, just scratch off a receipt and we’ll finish
up and have dinner.”
This was done and the two men saw Henry over
the side, giving him, as I had done, a good tip for
his kind interest in getting them such fine berths.
Then the big nigger cleared the table and brought
in a very meal, at which the captain and
we mates fell to.
I was not a little astonished at the appearance of
Richards. He was all cleaned up and wore a scarf
tied under his newly shaved chin. He was always
neat in appearance, but here he was, without anything
apparently to tog out with, all rigged as fine
as though he were going ashore. His smooth face,
sunburned and lined as it was from exposure, seemed
to tell of much hardship in the past. He was a
solemn-looking fellow at best, and to see him togged
out in this shape, with his hands washed and old
.bn 039.png
.pn +1
clothes brushed, was strange. He took his place at
the table without a word.
“You see,” said Captain Watkins, looking at me
with his sharp eyes, “I believe in the equality of
all men.”
I nodded, for it was not often the mates and
sailors of a ship had a chance to eat in the forward
cabin of a vessel, especially together. The Scotchman,
Martin, eyed the old fellow narrowly. We
could not all be mates.
“One man’s as good as another, and sometimes
even better,” said Richards, softly.
“That’s it. Even a black man is as good as a
white one. Some people don’t think so, but I know
it’s so,” said the skipper.
“I’ve seen some I thought better,” said Richards,
helping himself to a piece of boiled meat, “but it
don’t keep people from jerking them up for slaves
when they get a chance.”
“I have known slavers,” said the old man, gently,
“but they are a rough set and capable of any
crime. On our last voyage one of those fellows
wanted to visit me during a calm, but I was afraid
of him and warned him away. A desperate-looking
set they were.”
“Must have frightened you badly,” sneered
Richards.
The old skipper looked at the sailor. There was
.bn 040.png
.pn +1
something like sadness in his voice as he answered.
“I’m of a somewhat timid nature, but cannot
help it. I cannot stand seeing poor coloured folk
made to suffer. You will know me better after you
have sailed with me for a voyage.”
I thought I saw just the glimmer of a smile
around the corners of his mouth as he said this,
and looked for some reply from my talkative mate.
Richards made no further remark, and the conversation
turned to more sailor-like topics.
We talked rather late, as the skipper was most
fatherly in his manner, and, when the fellow Martin
suggested he would go ashore and get his dunnage,
it was found that Henry had taken the boat
without the nigger, and had not sent it back aboard.
“It is of no great consequence, I hope,” said
Watkins. “You two, Mr. Heywood and Richards,
may turn in the port room; you, Mr. Martin and
Mr. Anderson, to starboard, and perhaps in the
morning I can let you have the day ashore.”
Then we separated. Richards and I tossed a coin
to see who would get the bunk, and I won. I arranged
my coat for a pillow and soon fell asleep,
leaving my roommate to shift for himself on the
deck.
Once or twice during the night I thought I heard
stealthy footsteps overhead, and once it seemed to
.bn 041.png
.pn +1
me that the barque was heeling over a bit. Finally
I was awakened by a loud banging at my door, and,
springing up, found it was broad day. Then it
suddenly dawned upon me that the barque was under
way.
Opening the door, I found a strange fellow scowling
at me. He was dressed as a common sailor
and was a bit drunk.
It is just as well to start discipline right aboard
a ship, thought I, so I hitched my trousers’ belt the
tighter before sailing in to show how an American
mate whangs the deviltry and liquor out of a foreign
skin when aroused from pleasant dreams. I
noticed the absence of Richards, but thought he had
already turned out for duty. Then I accosted the
fellow and asked softly what he wanted.
“What cher doin’ in my room, yer bloomin’
swine?” he howled. “Git out an’--”
I had stopped him with a right swing on the jaw,
and the next instant we were loping about that cabin
in fine style. In a moment there was a rush of feet,
and something crashed on my head. Then followed
stars and darkness.
.bn 042.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER IV. | SHANGHAIED
.sp 2
When I came again into this world, I found
myself lying in a dark, dirty hole of a forecastle.
There was not a man there, but, as I looked over
the empty berths, I saw plenty of clothes and bedding,
which gave evidence of a full crew.
Getting to my feet, I found my head sorely cut
and bruised, and wondered what had happened. A
throbbing pain across the eyes did little to aid my
thoughts, and, while I stood holding to the ladder
down which I had been flung, the scuttle above me
was thrust back and the fellow Martin started down.
“Aha!” he said when he saw me, “’twas a guid
wan ye got ain yer haid. A clout will do ye na
harm, ye thievin’ trixter, ye deceivin’ rascal. Now
I’ll give you one for ald lang syne, an’ teach ye
better to deceive a honest mon ag’in.”
While talking, he turned back the sleeves of his
jumper and made ready to carry out his threat.
He saw I made no movement, however, and hesitated.
.bn 043.png
.pn +1
“Defend yairself, mon, defend yairself. Do not
let me whollop yer like a babe,” and he advanced
toward me with his hands before him in some very
fair style.
“See here,” I said, “what the mischief has happened?
What are you driving at? I’ve played
no trick, but it looks like some one has played a
trick on me.”
“Ah, na backslidin’, ye corward, na backslidin’!
Yer can’t fool a canny sailormaun that way. Put
yer hands before yer ugly face, or I’ll whollop ye
like er babe.”
“I’m not afraid of your wholloping, Scotty. Let
me get a turn about my head a bit, and pull this
ragged shirt off. Wonderful clean fo’castle this.
No drunks, no filthy dunnage overhauled, no--what
infernal ship is this, anyway?”
He saw I was not joking. Indeed, my appearance,
as his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom,
put joking aside, and my last remark about the
vessel was true.
He dropped his hands and stared at me.
“Ware ye sure rung in like the rest? Waren’t
ye in the game?” Then he burst into a hoarse laugh
and held out his hand. At that minute the tramp
of feet sounded overhead, and a half-score of men
came clattering down the companion-ladder.
It was a mixed crew,--Norwegians, Swedes, dagoes,
.bn 044.png
.pn +1
and Dutchmen,--but all with the unmistakable
swing of the deep-water sailor. They stared
at me, and then started a gabble of language that
in my disturbed condition I failed to understand.
They crowded around me and asked questions, and
I noticed Anderson eyeing me suspiciously. Then
Martin, with a sweep of his hand, cut them off,
and began telling how I came aboard. When he
was through with his flowery description of Henry,
I noticed several men shake their clenched hands
aft.
“Well,” said I, “I’m the mate, and I guess I’ll
go aft and find out who rapped me over the head.
Some fellows in the other watch, I suppose.”
They burst into derisive laughter.
“We’re all mates and captains here,” sung out a
big Norwegian addressed as Bill. “You better
turn in while you may, friend Heywood. You’re
in Henry’s watch, an’ the captain ain’t turned out
yet.”
“Who’s the old man?” I asked, bewildered, and
thinking I must still be daffy from the crack on the
head.
“Ain’t seen him yet,” said several at once.
“Well, what infernal hooker am I in, anyway?”
I asked Martin.
“They call her The Gentle Hand, but there ain’t
na name painted on her. Some says she’s the Fly-by-Night,
.bn 045.png
.pn +1
Howard’s old pirate barque, but that
canna weel be. She’s light. Not a hundred ton
below decks, an’ that’s mostly stores.”
“The Fly-by-Night was a cruising brig before
the first war with England,” I said. “It can’t possibly
be that old hooker. Besides, she was used
against the French by your General Braddock.”
“Well, when you find out just what we’ve gotten
into, coom an’ tell us,” said Martin.
It had been slowly dawning upon me that I had
been the victim of a trick, and I felt in my pocket
for the advance I had received the day before. The
barque was under way, that was certain, but no one
seemed to know where she was bound, and, as I
fumbled through my clothes, Martin laughed.
“’Twas guid money, Heywood, but ’tis gone. I
missed mine this morning. Maybe Anderson can
tell where it is,” and he grinned.
The money was gone. That was certain. Yet it
was no dream. I had received it fair enough. Feeling
anger and hatred for the trick upon me, I bound
up my head and went up the ladder to the deck to
have a look around. Several men called out to me
to have a care of the mate, but most of them were
busy arranging their belongings, quarrelling and
fighting among themselves over the possession of
what clothes happened to be common to the crowd.
I saw Martin steal a pair of tarpaulin trousers from
.bn 046.png
.pn +1
a fellow who was wrestling with the sailor Bill for
the possession of a bag of straw bedding. Then
I stepped on deck.
The cool air did me good. I went to the rail
and looked over. The barque was going steadily
to the southward with every rag set. She was heeling
but gently, and there was little wind or sea.
She was braced a bit to starboard, her port tack
aboard, and by her trimming I saw she was under
English officers. Every yard just in line with its
fellow, from the big main to the little royal that
crossed a good hundred and seventy feet above the
sea. Far away to the eastward showed the even
outline of the French coast, and between us many
sails strung along the band of blue, their hulls either
just below or rising above the horizon’s line. The
day was fine and the easterly breeze gentle, and the
barque was swinging easily along.
I looked aft and saw men of the mate’s watch
at work setting up the backstays in the main-rigging,
and some on the mizzen topsail-yard, apparently
under the direction of Richards, serving a
worn foot-rope. The canvas covers were off the
guns, and a dozen bright twelve-pounders of polished
brass shone in the sunlight. The white deck
beneath and the varnished spars above made a pretty
picture, and I grew warm to think that I was not
indeed the mate of such a craft. They had played
.bn 047.png
.pn +1
a fine trick on me to get me aboard sober and without
compulsion, signing a receipt for an advance
equal to a couple of months’ ordinary wages. There
were plenty of sailors about the pier-heads, for the
war had turned many adrift without means of getting
a ship, and there seemed to be no reason why
these fellows should try their land-shark game in
getting a crew.
As I looked aft it dawned upon me that these
men were much better than the ordinary run of
common sailors. There was something in the fellow’s
walk I now saw crossing the deck that spoke
of the war-ship. Even the watch I had just seen
below were remarkably rough and tough specimens
of a rugged humanity.
While I stood there taking in the scene, I saw a
man come from aft and walk to the break of the
poop. He looked over the barque carefully, and
as his gaze came down the fore-rigging it stopped
upon me.
He was dressed something after the manner of
a preacher, with black cloth coat and stock, and his
hair was cut short. As I took his figure in, there
was little difficulty in recognizing Richard Raymond,
the man of peace. He beckoned me to come
aft, and, as I did so, he removed the huge drooping
moustache he had been wearing and tossed it over
the side.
.bn 048.png
.pn +1
“I reckon you know me now, Heywood,” said
he, “though it’s been over six years since we parted.
I wanted you on this voyage, and took some pains
to get ye. That was the old man who welted ye
over the head. I’m sorry for it.”
It was Hawkson, sure enough. I recognized him
easily now in spite of his gray hair and older look.
How I failed to recognize him at first even in his
disguise puzzled me. We had made the cruise in
the Petrel together, and had served on the man-of-war.
“Well, you’ve got me fast enough, though you
played a mean trick getting me. Now what’s the
game?” said I.
The old privateersman smiled, and his jaws
worked as though muttering to himself. His face
creased into ugly lines about his large mouth, and
he showed his teeth.
“I’m first officer here. That fellow Gull you
fouled this morning is second. Remember this first
and the rest’ll come easy. Henry is third mate,
and I hear them say that you’re to be made gunner.
How’s that?”
“Who’s them?” I asked, somewhat nettled.
“Them’s us, sonny. The old man, the two gentlemen
aft, myself, and the rest.”
“Where are we bound for, and what’s the hooker’s
.bn 049.png
.pn +1
name? It’s all well enough to be cribbed aboard
a ship, but I’m going to find out what’s the game.”
“We’re bound for the South Pacific; that’s all
clear as mud, an’ we’ve got a picked crew because
the business in hand needs honest men.”
“I bow to myself,” I answered. “It’s well to
know.”
“What more do you want, hey? Go forrads an’
turn in, an’ I’ll square ye with the fellow Gull.
Don’t let them see me talkin’ too much with ye,
sonny, or I’ll have to forget the past for the needs
o’ the present. You’re aboard a fine ship.”
“Well,” I answered, “that’s all good enough, but
I would like to know her name and who’s her skipper,--and
what’s more, I’m going to find out right
away.”
Hawkson’s eyes glinted with that light I knew
so well meant danger, and his ugly mouth worked
nervously.
“Perhaps you’d care to go aft and interview the
captain about it,” said he, with his drawl. “He’s
a gentleman every inch, and will be a revelation to
ye after them packets you’ve sailed in. Suppose
you lay aft and make out your own case. You
were always an obstinate youngster, but I reckon
since you’ve been mate your head’s swelled worse’n
ever.”
I knew Hawkson to be one of the most dangerous
.bn 050.png
.pn +1
men afloat when aroused, but about this time I was
not exactly a lambkin myself. A man does not
become mate of a western ocean packet with anything
lamblike in his make-up, unless it is by accident
for one voyage. I was not quarrelsome, but
resented with righteous indignation the manner in
which I had been kidnapped in broad daylight without
even being under the influence of liquor. The
simplicity of the whole affair maddened me, and
not even the fellowship of Martin and Anderson
or others in the list of victims detracted one jot
from the implied lack of ordinary precautions and
common sense. I started up the weather side of
the poop to go aft, and I noticed several fellows to
leeward looking at me.
“Go to lor’ard,” growled Hawkson, fiercely.
But I paid no attention, and was half-way up the
steps when a man came up the after companion
and walked toward me. As he reached the deck
and turned before I had gotten up, I stopped short,
looking at him. It was Captain Howard, the pirate.
.bn 051.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER V. | IN THE FO’C’SLE
.sp 2
I will admit my zeal abated a trifle when I met
the captain’s gaze, but I was not much afraid of
any man, so up the ladder I went and toward him.
He saw me approaching and stopped. Then he
demanded in a high voice from Hawkson what I
wanted and why I was allowed up the weather side
of the quarter-deck.
“He’s a bit daffy, sir,” said Hawkson, touching
his cap. “That crack on the pate you gave him has
turned his burgoo case. He’ll be all right soon, sir.”
“Daffy or not,” said I, “I want to know what
ship I’m in and where she’s bound,--and I’m going
to find out.”
The ugly face of Captain Howard was inscrutable.
His glassy eyes like those of some reptile
were fixed upon me. His thin, hooked nose appeared
like the beak of an albatross. He took off
his hat and bowed to me politely, saying:
“It will give me great pleasure to listen to you,
sir.” I noticed his poll was as smooth and hairless
.bn 052.png
.pn +1
as the sole of my foot, only a red seam that
stretched from the crown to his left ear wrinkled
its bronzed roundness.
“Well,” I said, more mildly, “I would like to
find out what ship I’m in and where she’s going.”
“Were you drunk, sir, when you came aboard
her?” he asked, calmly.
“I was not,” I answered, warmly.
“Were you blind?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, then, you have permission to look about
you, and, if you’re the sailor you claim to be, you
will perceive this is a barque. She is called the
Gentle Hand. She is bound for the South Atlantic.”
“But I shipped as mate of her,” I stammered.
“That is manifestly impossible. Mr. Hawkson
has been mate of her for some time. That was
probably a little joke of Watkins, the steward.”
Here he threw up his head and burst into a rattling
laugh, his mouth slightly open, but his face otherwise
unmoved.
“He, he, he!” he rattled, “you’ll be a mate fast
enough,--a gunner’s mate. And, if that don’t
suit you, Mr. Hawkson will introduce you to the
gunner’s daughter. Go forward now and remember
that if you come on the weather side of the
quarter-deck while I’m here, I’ll write my name on
you with a hot iron. Do you see? Ho, ho, ho!
.bn 053.png
.pn +1
That Watkins is a tricky knave and you have my
permission to manhandle him. There he is now.
Breakfast--”
As he spoke, the venerable old scoundrel emerged
from the door of the forward cabin, and, standing
upon the poop step, announced that the morning
meal was ready. There was little left for me but
to get forward. The “gunner’s daughter” on that
ship I knew was the sinister name applied to the
breech of one of the guns, and an introduction consisted
of being held over it with a naked back, while
a sailor cut the victim to ribbons with a cat-o’-nine-tails.
As the old rascal Watkins stood there announcing
breakfast, he recognized me and grinned.
“It isn’t well to laugh early in the morning,”
I said, as I went past him. The captain went below,
and I stopped on the last step of the poop-ladder.
“For sometimes it’s rude.” Here I caught him a
cuff with the flat of my hand that sounded all over
the deck, knocking him a couple of fathoms toward
the main-hatch. A man to leeward laughed outright,
and even Hawkson chuckled.
The old fellow recovered himself, and his grin
was conspicuously absent as he came toward me
in a menacing manner.
“Now you trot along, Noah,” said I. “I’ll give
.bn 054.png
.pn +1
you one like that every little while until I find that
advance money back in my pocket.”
He stopped in front of me, and his mouth worked
nervously. His eyes seemed to disappear under
his shaggy brows, and his beard fairly bristled with
rage.
I was a stout man among stout men, and he saw
there was little use speaking out loud. Then he
turned and went into the cabin, where Captain Howard
was bawling for him to bring his coffee.
“Better have let the old man alone, Heywood,”
said Hawkson. “There’s a lot of trouble bottled
up in his old carcass.”
“Well, I’m uncorking a few of my own,” I said,
“and if that second mate turns out while I have
my hands warm, there’ll be some more.”
Hawkson chuckled.
“You’re taking things rather hard, ain’t ye?
You’ll be mighty glad they took ye aboard the old
pirate before you’re through.”
“Well,” I said, “you’ve not answered my question,
and I’m going to find out a few things in
my own way. Piracy is nonsense these days, though
if there were such things, you’d be in them all right.
How did that skipper get command of this vessel,
anyway, and where is she headed for?”
“I told you we were bound for the South Atlantic.
Just where, you’ll find out by the time we
.bn 055.png
.pn +1
get there. We’re to stop at Nassau to take the
owners aboard and then go ahead. That’s all there
is to it. Sailing to the Bahamas and then around
the Cape of Good Hope over to where the owners
want to go. That’s plain as mud, ain’t it?”
“How about the pay? Do you suppose I’ll go
for nothing?”
“The pay is good, no fear. You won’t lose anything.
Why, most of these fellows here have
shipped without knowing any more’n you do, so
what’s the use making trouble for yourself? It’s
a regular trading voyage. Just plain trading in
the Atlantic, an’ if we get the best of some trades,
why--so much the better for the owners and all
hands. The owners are all right, sonny, an’ they’ll
be here to settle.”
“Well, if you had only told me this,” I answered,
“I would probably have shipped anyhow, though I
don’t care about going forrard again.”
“That’s what I was afraid of, an’ the officers’
berths were full. Three or four o’ the A. B.’s forrards
has been mates before. You’ll be all right
as gunner if you leave this after-guard alone. It’s
goin’ to take all your care now to clear Watkins.
He’ll kill you the first chance he gets.”
“Bah!” I said, turning to go.
Hawkson left me and went aft. I hesitated a
few moments, looking around to see if any one on
.bn 056.png
.pn +1
deck had heard our talk, but there was no one near
enough, and those who saw us might have thought
the mate was giving me a reprimand for whanging
the old steward. Hawkson would be friendly in
a rough way, and I did not care for all hands to
know it. As I was in Mr. Gull’s watch, I had four
hours below before confronting that gentleman,
and I might as well take advantage of them, as my
head was very painful. Taking one more look over
the vessel and beyond where sunlight danced upon
the wrinkled blue surface of the ocean, I went to
the forecastle hatch and forthwith below. Here I
took possession of a bunk which the thoughtful
owners had cleaned and painted, and, announcing
my claim to the watch who had finished a late breakfast,
sat upon its edge and munched a piece of hard
bread.
“I see ye whack the old duffer Watkins,” said
the fellow Bill. “What’d yer hit him for?”
I told him, and looked at Martin to see if he
agreed to my accusations against the old rascal’s
honesty. He smoked in silence.
“D’ye know who Watkins is?” asked a big Finn
with a long black beard, “because if you don’t,
you’re apt to find out too late.”
“Do you know me?” I asked.
The fellow looked surlily at me.
.bn 057.png
.pn +1
“Because if you fellows down here don’t, some
of you will find out all of a sudden.”
I had noticed that they had left the mess things
lying about, as if awaiting something, and then I
had a grave suspicion that the something was myself,
whom they would delegate to clean up after
them. It was just as well to take the matter in
hand at the beginning, and if there was to be a
fracas to see who was to be the boss of that crowd,
the earlier the better.
The big Finn gazed at me, but said nothing, and
Bill seemed to size me up closely.
“Who and what is that old swab, Watkins?”
I asked, suddenly turning upon Bill.
“They say he was mate with Howard when he
was a boy. Served thirty years for a few things
they did in the China Seas. Killed more’n forty
men.”
“Well,” I answered, “if some one had taken him
in hand before he’d killed the last thirty-nine, he
would have a better chance than he has now for
keeping out of the devil’s company. Now you get
hold of those mess things, William, and make the
Czar’s cousin here lend a hand. If you don’t, I’ll
make you wish Watkins was here to run this mess
when the watch is called.”
Here I lounged back in my pew, finishing off
with a chunk of salt beef and a cup of cold water.
.bn 058.png
.pn +1
Afterward I lit a pipe and smoked complacently,
while keeping a lookout to see what the crowd would
do.
Bill was a fine specimen of the Norwegian sailor,
and he surveyed the mess things contemptuously
for a few minutes. Then he seized upon a stocky
little Dane, and bade him carry the things away.
The men, having finished, were talking and smoking,
sitting in their pews or upon the sea-chests the
more lucky happened to bring aboard. They saw
Bill’s move, and a murmur of disapproval ran
among them. Several pointed at me, but I smoked
in silence, feeling much better for having eaten something,
and recovered my usual strength and spirits.
In a few minutes we might be called on deck, perhaps,
to trim sail, but if not, the after-breakfast
smoke would be followed by an arranging of the
forecastle. The little Dane entered a loud protest
against his new duties, but Bill silenced him quickly
with an oath.
“You do as I tell yer. I’ll settle with the Yank
later,” said he.
“There’s no time like the present,” said I, putting
my pipe away and slowly rising out of my pew.
“I’m the high cock of this roost, and when I give
an order below here there needn’t be any settlement
called for. Peel off! Get ready, for I’m coming
for you, William.”
.bn 059.png
.pn +1
The loungers looked up, and Martin chuckled.
“Coom, coom, a fair fight, an’ may the best mon
win,” he cried. “Gie us room, laddies, gie us room.
I’ll back the Yank, mon, and, Anderson, ye knave,
ye’ll back yer Scandinavian.”
Bill was not a coward, but he had the blood of
a peaceful race in his veins. He was very strong
and able, and he cursed me heartily, while I calmly
pulled off my upper garment. His fierce threats
only made me more determined to put him through,
for the more he swore the angrier he became, telling
plainly that the matter was not so greatly to his
taste.
As gunner or petty officer of any rank aboard ship,
it was absolutely necessary to make a clear start, in
order to avoid disagreements later. The weaker
must be made to act as cook for the mess, and there
was no help for it. It was the rule that had to be
established in the same old way.
Martin drew a line across the deck with a piece
of charred wood. I stepped up to it and placed the
toe of my left foot upon it and was ready. Bill
quickly swaggered up, and I landed like lightning
upon his jaw. He staggered back into the arms
of Anderson. Then he spit out a mouthful of blood,
and came at me with an oath and a rush.
.bn 060.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER VI. | I BECOME “COCK OF THE WALK”
.sp 2
There was nothing brutal or rough in this encounter,
and, if it savours of the commonplace
sailor’s brawl, I can only say that such are the customs
on deep-water ships, and they must continue
through all time. Life at sea is not always gentle.
There is no use trying to make it so. It is nearly
always a fight against the elements, and the roughness
prevents the customs from becoming effete as
those of the drawing-room, where an easy tongue
and sarcastic wit does the hurting. This is said
to be refined and not brutal, but for my part I have
seen men more brutally and cruelly hurt by words
than by fists. A person with a weak stomach will
stand an uncommon lot of verbal brutality, but
when it takes a physical form, they shrink from it
and cry out that it is degrading. It is less degrading
than a vile tongue.
When Bill landed upon me, there was something
of a mix-up, and some short-arm work that might
have proved interesting to lovers of sport. We
.bn 061.png
.pn +1
were in pretty good training, and the thuds of our
blows sounded healthily through the little forecastle.
The men lounging in their pews and gazing complacently
at us, their bodies and legs well out of the
way, made a very appreciative audience and left the
deck perfectly clear. Their remarks were not always
well advised, for they clamoured loudly for
Bill to put the finishing touches to me, while I jolted
him repeatedly upon the side of his bullet-head.
Finally Martin and Anderson separated us for
a breathing spell, and I had a chance to look about
the room with the one eye left me for duty. Then
I noticed the companionway blocked by the forms
of two men who were somewhat remarkable in appearance.
They were dressed in the height of fashion,
and sat upon the topmost steps smoking and
looking interested. The younger was about my
own age, and good-looking, and his companion was
nearer middle age, with a face describing free living.
“I have your money on that first round,” said
the younger. “The Yank drew first blood,” and
he pulled forth a handsome gold watch and noted
the time.
“Two to one he loses yet,” said the older man,
carelessly, as though it was of no consequence whatever.
That stirred something within me.
“Perhaps you would care for a turn,” I suggested,
.bn 062.png
.pn +1
turning sharply at him. But he laughed
immoderately, and the younger man joined, slapping
his leg, crying:
“I’ll take you! I’ll take you!”
At that instant time was called by Martin, and
we went at it again.
There is no use going into the details of the finish,
but it will suffice to say that the American eagle
which was tattooed upon my breast had no reason
to blush. I was somewhat aroused by the unfriendly
tone of the Englishman above, and I jolted Bill
rather roughly upon the point of his jaw. It was
not viciously done, but at the same time I put a
bit of weight into my hand, and my heavily limbed
antagonist dropped to the floor. Anderson tried to
get him to start again, but he reeled as he reached
his knees and swayed hopelessly for a space. The
motion of the ship seemed to bother him also.
“My money! My money!” cried the younger
man above. “The Yank has him going.”
It was more than that, and I felt sorry for Bill.
He was out of it, and a heavy jolt might mean
something serious. I went to my bunk and began
to put my clothes on, while Martin cried for me
to wait. “I’ll give you a turn another time,” I
said, shortly.
“No, no, he isn’t done for yet,” they all cried,
but I knew better.
.bn 063.png
.pn +1
Poor Bill! He turned his face up, and I saw
his vacant eyes trying to grasp the situation. He
was game enough, and struggled to rise, swaying
to and fro like an unstayed topmast. The deck
would slant away from him and his hand would
reach out for support. Then the barque heaved a
bit to leeward, and he staggered, swayed, and then
pitched forward prone and lay still.
“Pour water over him, mon, pour water over
him,” cried Martin, and Anderson sluiced the allowance
in the forecastle over the fallen man’s
head. Then they raised him and put him in his
pew, and, by the time I had finished dressing, he
was sitting up regarding me curiously.
“Now, William,” said I, “just as soon as you feel
better, you take hold of these mess things and get
them cleaned up and shipshape. Jorg there can lend
you a hand this morning, and, if he doesn’t bear
a hand, I’ll see what kind of skin they raise in
Finland.” And I nodded to the bearded fellow
who had chosen to question me regarding Watkins.
Then I settled myself for a nap, and tied a rag over
my bruised side-light, while I smoked and listened
to the discussions around me.
The younger man who sat in the companion, and
who had backed me, now arose and stood twisting
the ends of his little blond moustache while he looked
down. His face was tanned a ruddy brown, and
.bn 064.png
.pn +1
I was not inclined to find fault with his looks. His
companion cursed his luck and Bill, his face almost
purple with anger and his black beard fairly bristling.
“I’ll own I’ve lost, Sir John, but may the curse
of the vikings strike that lubber I backed,” he
growled. “One wouldn’t think there was so little
in such a big fellow. I thought Hawkson had a
picked crew, but, if that fellow Bill’s the best, they’re
a poor lot.”
“I think the Yank proved satisfactorily the Sou’wegian
isn’t the best man in the forecastle. Bill
is all right enough. Come along. They’ll be all
right for our business.”
“And what is their business?” I asked Martin,
as they went aft. “Is it to come forrard and try
and get on a fracas for their amusement? For
if that’s their lay, I’ll see they get one before long
if they are passengers.”
“I hear they’re part-owners. The owners will
join at the islands. It’s themselves who are runnin’
the vessel an’ expedition,” said the Scot.
“Well, they strike me as a queer lot, and the
whole thing don’t seem regular. Here we are in
Howard’s old pirate barque, being tricked into signing
on. The old rascal is in command, although
he must be more than three-quarters of a hundred
years old. And here we sail away on an expedition
.bn 065.png
.pn +1
no one seems to know anything about except the
owners themselves.”
“There ain’t any such thing as piracy in these
times, hey?” said Martin, and he looked at me
hard with his bright gray eyes, his whole broad
face showing plainly enough that he was more than
willing that there should be.
“No, of course not,” I said. “How the deuce
could a barque like this turn pirate? She isn’t fast
enough, in the first place.”
“Ye is wrong there. There ain’t anything afloat
that’ll go to windward o’ this craft. Good mon,
just look how she travels! Na, na, friend Heywood,
this be a trim ship for a robber, and we’re uncommon
well manned. Twenty men forrards, and
there’ll be nigh a dozen more aft, making up to
forty when we ship the owners. ’Tis a biggish
crowd fer a barque o’ five hundred ton. Now I’ve
been a peaceable man an’ mate o’ a dozen ships,--as
you yoursel’,--but I wouldna gie thruppence fer
me conscience should th’ owld raskil aft say th’
word. Be you afeard, friend Heywood?”
“Not of you, Watkins, or Howard himself,” I
answered, “but it’s all foolishness to think of dodging
men-of-war in these days. I’ve sailed in a man-o’-war
that would clean the South Sea of all floating
things in six months. It’s not that they’re after.
They’re up to some expedition among the islands.
.bn 066.png
.pn +1
Maybe the scoundrel has treasure hid, and these
bloods are going out to hunt it. That’s more like
the lay of it.”
“Maybe, maybe, friend Heywood, but even so I’m
that keen for the adventure, I’ll not stand for the
money they robbed us of, if there’s a chance to get
it back.”
“Well, I’ll clear at the Bahamas if I get a chance,
unless they show me that advance I missed,” I said,
warmly, “and I’ll make that old scoundrel sorry
for some of his sins.”
Then we smoked in silence until Hawkson’s voice
bawled out for eight bells, and a rough-looking
Dutchman poked his head below and bellowed the
news, receiving an old sea-boot full in the face from
Martin for his pains.
The morning had passed rapidly enough, and although
tired and sore from the incidents of the past
few hours, I was not sorry to go on deck and get
a breath of fresh sea air.
.bn 067.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER VII. | TWO KINDS OF HAND-SHAKES
.sp 2
Mr. Gull, the second mate, was already on deck
when we arrived, and I expected to continue our
pleasantries of the early morning. He looked hard
at us and said nothing, and then I knew Hawkson
had put in a word for me, for no second mate could
otherwise have resisted the temptation of taking it
out of an able-bodied seaman, no matter how able-bodied
he might be. I was informed shortly that
I was made gunner, and was henceforth in charge
of the barque’s battery to see that it was kept in
order. But there was no more room aft for any
more petty officers. Henry and Watkins occupied
the only remaining room, on account of the space
occupied by the passengers and their luggage. Jorg,
the Finn, I found was the carpenter, but he also
had to share the forecastle.
Before going below, Hawkson summoned all
hands, and he and Gull went through the old form
of choosing the watches.
.bn 068.png
.pn +1
“Bos’n,” said Hawkson, addressing Richards,
“you may muster the men aft.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” said the man-o’-war’s man, and
he touched his cap with his hand like in the old
days aboard the frigate when I had seen him speak
to the officer of the deck.
It was something of a surprise to me, and also
to the rest, to find the man who had served under
me as second mate as bos’n of that crowd. It made
me think that perhaps I might dispute the position
with him, for I was a navigator and capable of
working the ship’s position to a fairly accurate
extent, and old Peter Richards was only a plain
able seaman. But I soon saw why he had been
chosen. He was a trained man and used to the
discipline of a fighting ship, and there were plenty
of navigators aft. He was very sober and quiet
in his manner this day, and I wondered at it, for
I was under the impression he had been fooled into
going aboard like the rest of us.
“How is it, Peter,” I asked, as he came near
me, “are you going to give me my orders?”
“Yes, and I advise you to obey them without
making trouble for yourself,” said he, quietly.
“You came into the ship with your eyes wide open.
Now stand to it. I told you I’d follow you and
take care of you.”
He said the last part of his speech with just a
.bn 069.png
.pn +1
suspicion of a smile lurking about the corners of
his mouth, and I was not in the humour to be
laughed at.
“All right, my cock,” said I, “if you are one
of the officers and know the destination of this
hooker, you will oblige me by telling me her port
of destination. If you don’t, I might be tempted
to argue the question with you. You are not pretty,
Peter, when you smile.”
“Don’t think I would tackle you, Heywood,”
said he, looking sternly at me. “You’ve been
aboard a fighting craft, and know just what I’ll do
if you don’t turn to when I say. I don’t know any
more about this vessel than you do, except--well,
except that I wouldn’t have picked her out as a
choice of ships. If you had used your eyes before
you signed on, you could have seen she was something
irregular. Brace up and do what you’re told
until you find out what you’re in for.”
Then he went along to get the rest of the crew.
The men who had temporarily gone below to
get their morning meal, and who had remained
below as the port watch, were now lined up with
those on deck, and Hawkson began by choosing a
huge fellow named Jones. He was a big, burly, red-headed
Welshman. Then Gull chose Bill in spite
of his appearance. And so it went until each had
an equal number of men on a side, Jorg going into
.bn 070.png
.pn +1
the starboard, and myself into the port watch, for we
were in the forecastle with the rest, while Richards
slung his hammock in Hawkson’s room. I started
on the forward guns, and spent the rest of the day
polishing.
The weather was fine and it was exhilarating to
sit in the gun-port to windward and watch the
old barque go. The land had now entirely disappeared
to the eastward, and we were rapidly drawing
off.
The barque was very fast. With a breeze of
not more than twelve knots, she was running a full
nine knots, seeming hardly to disturb the smooth
sea. Her wake was clean, and only the steady pouring
of her bow-wave whitened her path.
I sat for hours rubbing the muzzles of the guns
with whale-oil and dust, and, as I did so, I watched
the flaking foam of the side-wash spread away with
its musical hiss and tinkle. Down deep in the blue
below a piece of weed now and then flashed past,
looking like an eel or snake as the sunlight wavered
upon it. It was a warm, lazy day, and I pondered
long upon the strange turn of fortune that had
suddenly placed me upon the old barque with her
sinister past and mysterious future. Here she was
all fitted out for a long voyage, but without any
cargo to speak of, and that little stowed in such
a manner that it was easy of access.
.bn 071.png
.pn +1
I gazed aloft at the fine rigging, and noted how
well her canvas was cut. Every sail was fitted as
aboard a man-o’-war, and all her running gear was
of new hemp line of the finest grade, totally unlike
the loose laid stuff they used for clew-lines, bunt-lines,
leach-lines, and even braces aboard the ordinary
western ocean merchantmen. Hawkson had
the yards trimmed in a shipshape and seamanlike
manner, and the grease or varnish upon them
brought out the grain of the wood. They were
large for a vessel of five hundred ton. High above,
the mainroyal swung across a cloud-flecked zenith,
a small white strip, while beneath, in regular rotation,
stretched the t’gallantsail, topsail, and mainsail
into increasing size until across the main-yard
the distance must have been full seventy feet or
more.
The breeze hummed and droned under the foot
of the great mainsail, sounding restful and pleasant
with the easy roll of the vessel.
I was thinking how easy it would be to desert the
ship at Providence Harbour, in the Bahamas, and
return to the States. It was but a few days’ run
from there to Savannah, and plenty of small vessels
would be bound over at this time of the year. It
was degrading to have to polish brass like a common
foremast hand. However, if I tired of it, I was
really only working my way home. That was the
.bn 072.png
.pn +1
best way to look at it. But the thought of home
changed the half-formed purpose. What was there
in the name for me? Only a poor old mother
living in a bit of a house, with a negro girl I had
brought from Jamaica some years before. They
were dependent entirely upon me and the little
money I had saved to eke out an existence, the girl
doing all the work and caring for the aged mother.
If I went back, there would be only one more to
draw on the small hoard, and I might not get another
berth very soon. Here was a very proper ship,
rigged almost like a man-o’-war, and evidently
bound on some special mission. Perhaps there was
money to be made. At all events, there would be
little lost by staying in her, for the pay in American
ships was almost as poor as the English.
While I thought over these matters, I watched
the two passengers, who were lounging aft on the
quarter, smoking long clay pipes and drinking ale
from a tankard filled from a keg in the lazarette.
They certainly appeared well-to-do people, and, if
they were part-owners, there was little doubt from
their manners that they were used to living as gentlemen
of wealth and position.
Bill came down from aloft along the weather
main-rigging above me, where he had been fastening
chafing-gear on the backstays at the point the
topsail-yard would touch. He saw me gazing aft
.bn 073.png
.pn +1
while I rubbed, and he dropped somewhat ostentatiously
upon the deck to attract my attention.
“Welcome, hey?” he said.
“Of course,” I answered, holding out a greasy
hand. “Why not?”
“Well, I’ve no grudge, John,” said he. “You
licked me fair enough.”
“You haven’t come for another one?” I asked,
smiling.
“No,” he said, grasping my fingers in a tarry
grip, “no, I believe you’re all right. I youst wanted
to ask what you t’ought of the passengers. They
say they’re part-owners. Now, I’ve been in American
ships ten years and more, an’ I never t’ought
to go in a wessel not knowin’ youst where she’s
bound, did you?”
“How did you come to ship in her?” I asked.
“Oh, I signed all right. I youst saw she was a
fine wessel an’ the pay good,--more’n a mate of
an old country wessel,--so I t’ought it all right.
Only I’d youst like to find out, friend John, where
she’s bound for,--I mean what port.”
“The first is Nassau, but we’re signed for some
place in the South Atlantic or Pacific, and unless
you’re going to cut and run, or make a pier-head
jump, you’ll land in some of the South Sea Islands
for certain,” said I. “Who got you to come
aboard?”
.bn 074.png
.pn +1
“A little fellow youst like a fox,--Henry they
called him; he hasn’t been on deck yet much. I
t’ought he’d be a bit backward turnin’ out--There
he is now, comin’ out on the main-deck. If you
soak him one, I’ll stand by, for it would youst serve
him right, or if you youst stand by, I’ll attend to
it, hey?”
“No use, Bill,” I answered; “there’ll be enough
of real sure fracases before we’re on the beach
again. Let him alone. It will only make trouble
aft, and then the whole after-guard will be for
putting us through. I’ll look out he don’t put his
face in the forecastle, but he’s third mate, and he
belongs aft. These vessels are not like American
ships. A fellow don’t take rating by his hands,
and if you whollop an officer it only means trouble.
I like your style, Bill, and, if there’s trouble, I’ll stick
close to you; but there won’t be any unless you
make it.”
Bill held out his big fist again and squeezed mine.
There was an honest look in his blue eyes I liked,
albeit they were pretty well draped in black from
the discipline of the early morning. We were
friends from that moment, and I never had cause
to regret that hand-shake.
Henry saw us looking at him and came forward.
He was afraid of nothing on a ship’s deck, and,
if he were a tricky little sea-wolf, he was as grim
.bn 075.png
.pn +1
as any in the forests of the New England shores.
He swung up his hand to his cap as he reached
me, but took no notice of Bill. I kept on rubbing
the breech of the gun and took no notice, for I was
still a trifle sore at the way he had treated me.
“Mister Heywood, I saluted you, sir,” said
Henry, stopping.
“So you did,” I answered, “and it does great
credit to that mother of yours that your manners
are proper. I always return the salute of an honest
man, though it’s hardly necessary aboard ship, especially
merchant vessels.”
“Now, see here, Heywood, what’s the use of
keeping up a grudge? I got you into a good ship,
didn’t I? And, if you ain’t mate, you’re gunner.”
“If I had a grudge, I would wring your neck,
Henry,” I answered, calmly.
“No fear, Hi say,” he answered, smiling, and
held out his hand. “Put ’er there and we’ll call it
even, hey?”
I held out my hand, for there was really little
use keeping up a bad feeling aboard. I might as
well see the joke and bear a hand with the rest. I
held out a greasy paw to signify all was well.
The next instant his long fingers, which I had at
first noticed on the pier, closed upon mine like a
steel vice, and I involuntarily cried out with the
.bn 076.png
.pn +1
pain. Such a grip! There was nothing human
about it, and I felt my bones cracking.
“Let go!” I roared, and Bill sprang upon him
at the same instant.
But Henry grabbed his arm before he could
strike, and there we stood like two boys for an
instant, unable to move, with the keen-faced rascal
between us. Before either could strike with the
disengaged hand, Henry cast us loose with a laugh.
“Don’t you try it,” he grinned, as he passed
forward.
.bn 077.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER VIII. | OUR BOS’N
.sp 2
The bos’n of an English ship usually has eight
hours or more below, and the best part of four
watches on deck. This enables him to walk around
after the men and take charge during the time they
are at work and the navigator is unable to leave
the poop or quarter-deck. Yankee bos’ns, or fourth
mates, as we used to call them, were distinguished by
a rough, strong voice made raucous by hard usage.
Yelling and swearing at delinquent mariners, as
the shore folk put it, was supposed to be their principal
occupation, and to a certain extent the shore
folk were right. But Richards was not noisy.
Neither did he have the rough voice of the man-o’-war
bos’n. He was as gentle as any shore-bred
person, and even while he had served as second
mate under me, he had never been anything but
“Old” Richards,--old because he was so quiet.
When he took in hand the crew of that ship,
it made me smile to think of him tackling men like
.bn 078.png
.pn +1
Bill, Jones, or myself. Yet there he was over us,
and it soon began to look like Hawkson knew what
he was about when he put him in charge.
In the first place he had been used to discipline.
He had served on a war-ship for so long that he
seemed to know just what to do to get men to
work without getting afoul of them.
There is an art in this. It is born in some, cultivated
in others, but absolutely impossible to define
in a way that might be useful to the great
majority, for it is a mixture of so many qualities,
so many different freaks and phases of temperament,
and generally so dependent upon chance for
its establishment, that it must be dealt with only
as a peculiarity happening in human beings at remote
intervals.
Richards had the one necessary quality to begin
with, and that was a really kind disposition under
his silent exterior. There was nothing offensive in
him, and, while he never seemed to attract any
one, he did not repel them. Magnetism he possessed
in abundance, but this quality is of small use
among men who have to be made to do things
which often result in death and always in discomfort.
Often he would sit and listen to the arguments
of the men, and they would sometimes appeal to
.bn 079.png
.pn +1
him as judge, because he was so quiet and always
gave them an answer they could understand.
“What makes ye sa keen fer carryin’ on discipline,
friend Richards?” asked Martin, good-humouredly,
one evening as the watch sat or lounged
about the forecastle scuttle waiting to be called.
“It’s not your country’s ship; why d’ye care?
Now a war-ship an’ a patriot I kin understand. I
was a patriot mysel’.”
“I fou’t for England,” said big Jones, “but that
ware different.”
“You’d have fought for China just as quick,”
said the bos’n, “if any men you knew were going
out to fight. It’s the same aboard a fighting craft
as it is here. I’ve seen clerks in the shipping-houses,
that couldn’t tell a cutlass from a pike, go crazy
to fight when the war broke out. They liked to
be called ‘patriots,’ too. All men like to fight if
the whole crowd go in. It’s excitement and vanity.
You’ll be more of a patriot and less a fighting man
after you get ashore to stay.”
“Ay, that he will,” said Tim, the American.
“He’s too ready for fight, an’ a bit o’ discipline
will do him good.”
“Ah, hark ye at the bit o’ a man,” sneered Martin.
“One might think he feared a little fracas,
hey?” and he leered at the small sailor, who looked
.bn 080.png
.pn +1
him squarely in the eyes and swore at him, for a
bullying Scot he was.
Somehow, Richards never made trouble between
men. They rarely took offence at his answers, and
he never struck one.
To him the striking of a man lowered him at
once. If the man was an equal and had any self-respect,
it was necessary to go further into the matter
always, he explained. If he had not enough
self-respect to fight his smiter to the last limit, then
he was taking whatever chance the fellow had of
ever becoming a man, for no man, he held, could
be a person of spirit and courage and allow another
to strike him. It might work well in religious congregations,
where men were tricky and desperately
low and mean, stooping to any vile revenge, but
among men at sea upon a ship deck it was different.
To assault a man weaker than himself was
almost as bad in his eyes as assaulting a girl. In
either case, the victim’s self-respect was lost, and
the person consequently liable to be ruined. It would
require a nice adjustment, he claimed, to prevent
murder. He very plainly stated that, if Martin,
Jones, or any one of the heavy fellows who might
be tempted to try accounts with him at some disliked
order, should so far forget the discipline of
the ship and make a fight with him, he would be
bound by all law and precedent, as upon a man-of-war,
.bn 081.png
.pn +1
to kill him. The turning of the smitten
cheek to the offender was not to be taken literally.
It meant a man should show due forbearance before
entering into a fracas, which would certainly end
fatally for one or the other.
This doctrine might not appeal to the landsman,
and from a certain point of view it might appear
unchristian. But, if there was ever a man who
practised kindness toward his fellow men, that man
was the bos’n of the old pirate barque. He was
honest.
I had found that on former cruises to heathen
islands and countries, the heathen were usually all
right until some of the professed Christians appeared
to convert them. Afterward the histories of these
places were of a somewhat sinister character, and,
if ever there was an exception to prove the rule,
I had never heard tell of it. Every so-called Christian
country had allowed and advanced all kinds
of oppression among natives. Whether this was
for their spiritual welfare or not, it is not necessary
to inquire, the fact was always the same. Therefore,
I was interested in our future course, but,
from the steady discipline and forbearance of the
officers, expected to see very little of the usual kind
of conversion. Every ship full of canting religionists
came home full of black murder and worse.
There was much more to be expected from a vessel
.bn 082.png
.pn +1
whose after-guard stood for easy ship in regard
to these matters.
Sometimes, in the evening dog-watches, Richards
would even take the liberty of coming into the forecastle
and joining in the talk, or sitting upon the
forecastle head in the warm wind and listening to a
chanty roared out by Martin or some one who had
served in the Eastern trade-ships. One of the favourite
songs, made up from different snatches heard
either upon the men-of-war or along the dock-ends
of Liverpool, ran something like this:
.pm start_poem
“We had come to anchor fine, sir,
In a vessel o’ the line, sir,
We had cruised for five years steady
Upon the Southern Seas--
When a boat from off the shore, sir,
Brought a lady out aboard, sir,
She was black as soot an’ mud, sir,
An’ she smelled o’ oil an’ grease--”
.pm end_poem
Then all hands would roar out with will the refrain,
pointing to the bos’n:
.pm start_poem
“Then up jumped the bos’n, up jumped the crew,
The first mate, second mate, the cook and steward too--
But the captain swore he’d have her,
An’ the mate ’e tried to grab her,
She couldn’t have ’em all, sir--
What could the lady do?”
.pm end_poem
Sometimes the gentlemen from aft would come
forward and lend a hand with some new version
.bn 083.png
.pn +1
of an old song, but more often they were content
to listen from the sacred precincts of the quarter-deck.
Old Howard never interfered with hilarity, but
rather encouraged it. I wondered at this, but remembered
the cruise had only just begun. I had
seen captains encourage men before. Sometimes
it held a more sinister meaning than simple delight
at their pleasure.
.bn 084.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER IX. | I MAKE ANOTHER FRIEND
.sp 2
During the next week’s run we made a deal of
westing, passing to the southward of the Azores
and getting well into the western ocean. The northeast
trade was picked up, and, as it was well to the
eastward, it enabled us to carry on stun’sails fore
and aft.
We were better acquainted in the fo’castle now,
and I had learned to like several men of my watch.
Bill was a warm friend. Martin proved a very
entertaining fellow, but was absolutely without principle.
Anderson was quiet and attended to his
duties like the average Swede, being a good sailor
and an excellent hand for sewing canvas and making
chafing-gear. He went by the name of Goldy
in the forecastle on account of the colour of his
hair, which was bushy and covered his face.
In the other watch was Jones, the giant Welshman,
who was one of the best men that ever stood
.bn 085.png
.pn +1
upon a ship’s deck. He was as strong as a whale
and as kind-hearted as a girl.
But the little fellow called Tim, who was in my
watch, was the man I chummed with. He was not
much to look at, being small, ugly, red-headed, and
freckled. He was an American, however, and there
was that something about him that drew me to him
as the magnet draws iron. He had been pressed
into the British navy before the war, and had served
his time. When the fighting was over and he received
his discharge, he shipped in an East-Indiaman,
and made two voyages around the world.
Why he never returned to his home in the States
was the cause of some speculation on my part, but,
as he never mentioned his people, I refrained from
trespassing. It is bad form for a sailor to inquire
too closely into his shipmate’s past.
Tim was so insignificant looking among those
picked men that I took little or no notice of him
until one night when it was blowing a stiff gale
and the barque was staggering along under topsails
through an ugly cross-sea that made her old timbers
groan with the wrench.
I had occasion to go to the forecastle head, and,
while I stood there, leaning over the life-line which
did duty for a rail, I became absorbed for a few
minutes watching the fine phosphorescent display
in the bow wave. The night was very dark, and
.bn 086.png
.pn +1
the deep, booming note of the taut fabric above
and the rushing sound below drowned all minor
noises.
Suddenly I heard my name called loudly, and
something soft struck me in the back. I turned
and saw no one, but, while I searched the darkness
with my eyes, the door of the forward cabin opened,
and I saw for an instant the tall, erect form of Watkins,
the steward, against the light inside. I continued
to look over the side until a hand was laid
upon my shoulder, and the little man Tim, who was
really hardly more than a boy, slewed me around
none too gently.
“’Tain’t healthy,” said he, “to be near the side
o’ nights in a ship where things is queer. You
came nearer your end a minute ago than you ever
will again but once,” and he nodded aft.
“The steward?” I asked.
He nodded again, and looked so serious that my
first inclination to laugh died away at once. “He
was within two fathoms of you when I hailed, and
his knife was as long as that,” and he stuck forth
his arm with his left hand placed midway to the
shoulder.
“So that’s his game, is it?” I said. “I’ll keep
an eye on him hereafter. The whole outfit aft have
something queer about them. I’m obliged to you
.bn 087.png
.pn +1
for the warning. What was it that struck me in
the back?”
“Pair o’ my rolled-up socks,--the only ones
I’ve got, too,--an’ if they’re gone overboard, I’ll
have to go barefooted, for I can’t abide shoes without
socks. Them ratlines do cut the bare feet of a
feller most uncommon though, an’ I’ll have a job
aloft in the morning sending down them t’gallantstun’sail-booms.”
He searched about the forecastle deck for some
minutes in the darkness, but failed to find them.
The night being warm, we remained on deck, as
the stiff wind was invigorating and the forecastle
somewhat close. Finally we sat upon the weather
side of the windlass and leaned against it. There
was a man on lookout forward, but we were pretty
well out of the track of ships, and the only person
liable to disturb us was the third mate, who might
come forward to trim head-sail. The starboard
watch were grouped upon the main-hatch, lounging
and resting, and Hawkson walked fore and aft on
the poop, his tall form showing dimly now and
then as he passed the cabin skylights where the
light from within flared up. We snuggled down
comfortably to sleep, but the snore of the gale
through the rigging and under the forestaysail kept
us wakeful. I watched Tim alongside of me, and
saw he was still chewing his tobacco.
.bn 088.png
.pn +1
“How did you come to get into the hooker without
clothes?” I asked, thinking he was tricked like
myself.
“Signed all right. There’s money in her, if
what I believe is correct. She’ll pay a feller like
me. I’ve got no ties ashore. But they’re a tough
crowd. That feller, Sir John Hicks,--you’ve
heard of him, hey?”
“Never did. What’s he done?” I asked.
“He ain’t done nothin’ in particular, but he’s the
wildest of the family. Got plenty o’ money, an’
that Lord George Renshaw, the old un,--well, say,
Heywood, you’ve heard how he got chased out o’
London?”
I had heard nothing, being an American.
“I forgot,” he went on. “You see, I’m mighty
nigh an Englishman,” and he spoke sadly and
sighed, heaving his tobacco away.
“Why do you stick to English ships after they
stuck you for three years? I should think you’d
drop them by this time,” I said.
He turned upon me savagely, his eyes shining
and his face drawn.
“Why do I?” he cried, hoarsely, his voice sounding
above the snore overhead. “Why do I? What
business is it of yours why I do it? Why would
any man do the thing I’ve done--but to forget--not
the British Navy, good God, no. It was
.bn 089.png
.pn +1
bad enough, but you can forget it easy enough, and
to forget--”
“A woman?” I asked, boldly.
“What else,” he said, almost softly. “I was
a decent man once, Heywood, and not an outlaw--what
you will be if you stay aboard here. Yes,
I was married. Had as good girl as ever breathed.
But I was poor. What crime can a feller commit
equal to poverty, hey? You know the old, old
yarn. I go to sea as mate of an Indiaman, and
the owner saw the beauty of that angel. Do I
blame her? Not a bit. What chance would a poor
girl left alone for a few months have with a rich
young feller like him,--an’ him a rich ship-owner
standin’ for everything that’s good to the mind of
a poor girl. She was lost if he went unchecked,
an’ who would check the honourable gentleman?
Not her friends. Oh, no! He took her out on a
voyage with him--an’ left her without a cent--an’
now I’ll forget.”
“What’s against the ship?” I asked.
He seemed not to hear and was gazing aft, his
head thrown back against the windlass barrel. I
repeated the question.
“Nothing I know of. But you can rest easy,
Heywood, they are up to some expedition that won’t
bear the light. If you take a fool’s advice, you’ll
make the jump at Nassau.”
.bn 090.png
.pn +1
“Are you going there?” I asked.
“I don’t say. Mebbe I will, an’ mebbe no. But
you better.”
“I’m glad you take such an interest in my future,”
I said, rather shortly.
He turned full upon me, and I saw his eyes shine
in the light. “Look here, Heywood, I don’t deserve
that. You’ve got a bad memory. I may have
been a fool to let off about myself. I reckon I was,
but I’ve liked you, and there’s not a damn thing
aboard here I ever could like except you. I say
again, it’ll be best for you if you jump her at Nassau.”
“Well,” I said, “Tim, I’m pretty mean to say
you no after saving me from that Watkins’s carver,
though I reckon I could take care of the old duffer
even if he had forty knives. I didn’t mean to rough
you, for it’s with you whether I go or not. I’d stay
aboard to be with you, and that’s saying a bit more
than I’ve said to any man for some time.”
He gazed steadily at me, and I thought his eyes
had a wistful look. Then he spoke low in a voice
I could hardly hear.
“I’m glad you like me, Heywood. Maybe we’ll
go together. Yes, we might go together. Afterward--afterward--you
won’t mind a feller being, so
to say, a bit outside the law. There’ll be a line
for my neck, you know, if--well, no matter. If
.bn 091.png
.pn +1
you stay in the ship, there’ll be one for all hands,
if there’s any faith to be placed in signs.”
Then we remained silent for a long time. I
thought of Watkins and his dastardly attempt upon
me, and wondered if Tim was not a bit off in his
mind. But when I remembered the lost socks, I
knew he was not mistaken, for a sailor would hesitate
a long time before throwing his last pair away.
The danger must have been imminent. It was a
queer ship. That was certain. Half her crew had
been shipped by fraud, and her alleged owners were
not above reproach. As to her captain, there was
nothing he was not capable of, provided it was
wrong, in spite of his years and mask-like face,
withered and bare as a sun-scorched lemon. We
must have been asleep when the watch was called,
for I remember nothing of the bells, and suddenly
found myself looking into the rising sun, which
shone with unusual vigour over a windy sea.
Tim was just in the act of going below as I
looked at the forecastle scuttle. His face seemed
pale and drawn, but he smiled as he dived down
the companion-way.
“You can get those gun-covers laced fast before
we start washing down decks,” said Mr. Gull, coming
to the edge of the forecastle, and I was soon
on the main-deck with my trousers up to my knees,
enjoying the rushing warm sea water the watch
.bn 092.png
.pn +1
were flinging along the gangway, following it aft
with squeegee and swab until the planks were spotless.
How refreshing is that breeze of the early day
at sea! The lines, all damp with the salt dew of
the night, hum a note of gladness to welcome the
rising disc of light. The brisk sea wind freshens,
wrinkling the broad ridges rushing before it, and
brushing their white crests into a wide spread of
glittering jewels that flash, sparkle, and hiss in the
growing light. The air braces the tired body, and
the appetite grows keen. The men of the morning
watch take on new life, and all eyes begin to cast
looks at the galley stovepipe, watching for the increasing
volume of smoke outpouring that tells of
the preparation of the morning meal.
.bn 093.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER X. | YANKEE DAN AND HIS DAUGHTER
.sp 2
For the next three weeks we ran smoothly to
the westward, with nothing occurring aboard The
Gentle Hand to break the monotony of ship’s duty.
The stiff breeze, the edge of the northeast trade-wind,
bore us steadily on over warm seas bright
with sunlight and under blue skies flecked with the
lumpy trade clouds that hung apparently motionless
in the void above.
During this weather I had little to do, and had
a better chance of seeing something of the after-guard
while looking to the gear of the two long
twelves we carried upon the quarter-deck for stern-chasers.
We carried no metal on the forecastle,
and it appeared that these heavy guns aft were out
of all proportion to the rest of the battery.
I spoke to Hawkson about it, but he explained
that the natives of the Navigator, Society, and Fiji
groups were somewhat dangerous, and that, as our
.bn 094.png
.pn +1
mission was one of peaceful trading, we would
always run when attacked rather than fight, and
the heavy twelves were for keeping large canoes
at a distance.
“It would be a rather large canoe,” I admitted,
“that would face the fire of a long twelve-pounder
as heavy as any used in vessels of the frigate class.
The islands you speak of are not, however, in the
South Atlantic.”
“You always were a clever lad, Heywood,” said
he, with an ugly smile. “What a smart one you
were to see the error of that! But we’ll have a
try just to see what you can hit. Get a beef barrel
and heave it overboard, an’ get the men of the
gun-crew aft.”
After that we seldom let many days slip without
practice. Tim begged me to take him in the
gun-crew, and, as he was as active as a monkey,
I always let him have a chance. He grew very
quiet and sad as we drew near the Bahamas, and
when we ran clear of the trade, within a hundred
miles of the island, he seemed to be gazing over
the sunlit ocean, watching for a coming breeze.
Sometimes I had him aft, polishing the brass
of a gun-breech, and I noticed that he divided his
attention mostly between the captain, Hicks, and
Renshaw, and the southern horizon.
The great southern ocean is a lonely place, but
.bn 095.png
.pn +1
its very loneliness and quietness on the edge of the
great winds makes it appeal to a turbulent soul.
Tim and I sat a long time on the breech of the
stern-chaser, rubbing the metal easily and gazing
out over the calm ocean. It was quiet aboard, and
the voices of the men on the main-deck sounded
loud and discordant. The slatting of the canvas
was the only sound aloft, the royals jerking at the
clews first as the barque swung easily on the swell,
and then the t’gallantsails followed by the topsails
fore and aft, the taut canvas fanning the almost
still air with the rolling swing, making the jerking
of the tacks and clews sound rhythmically upon
the ear. Below, the captain and his two passengers
smoked and drank their ale under the cabin
skylight, their jokes sounding particularly coarse in
the sunlit quiet.
Tim suddenly stopped work and gazed to the
southward. Far away, miles and miles to windward,
the horizon darkened slightly where the deeper blue
of the ocean stood out against the pale azure of the
semitropical sky.
While he looked, there came a sound over the
water. It was a long, plaintive cry of immense
volume, but hardly distinct enough to be heard unless
the listener gave his attention. It was like a
wild minor chord of a harp, long continued and
sustained, rising and falling over the dark blue
.bn 096.png
.pn +1
heave of the swells where the light air darkened and
streaked the ruffled surface. Farther away to windward,
the ocean took on a deeper blue, and the air
filled the sails more steadily for a few minutes.
Tim stood gazing into the distance, his eyes
bright and his lips parted, but there was an expression
of peace and tranquillity upon his freckled face
that I had never noticed before.
“It’s the calling, Heywood, Heywood,” he whispered.
“It’s the great calling of the millions who
have gone before. Listen!”
I heard it. The sad, wailing notes coming from
miles and miles away to windward over that smooth
sea, with the freshening breeze, made an impression
upon me I could not throw off. It vibrated
through my whole being, and was like the voice
of great loneliness calling from the vast world of
sea and sky. It was not like the hum of the trade
in the rigging or the snore of a gale under the
foot of a topsail, nor like the thunderous roar of
the hurricane through the rigging of a hove-to ship.
The melancholy sadness of the long-sustained wail
was musical to a degree. I sat there listening.
Of course, it must have been caused by the wind
over the surface of the sea at a great distance, or
by different currents of air in passing, but the effect
upon the imagination was like that which might
be caused by the prolonged cry of a distant host
.bn 097.png
.pn +1
from the vastness of sunlit waste. It pervaded my
whole being, and enforced listening to its call, seeming
to draw my soul to it as if out in that sparkling
world of rippling wavelets lay the end of all strife
and the great eternal peace.
Tim stretched forth his arm. His eyes held a
strange look in them, and he moved to the rail as
though in a dream.
“I am coming, May, coming,” he whispered.
Before I realized what had happened, he had
gone over the side. Then I jumped to my feet with
a yell, and bawled out: “Man overboard!” at the
same time heaving the end of a gun-tackle over
the taffrail. The cry and noise of my rush brought
the entire watch to the side, and the captain and
Hawkson to the quarter-rail. The barque was
barely moving, and Tim was alongside. But he
refused to take the end of the line. There was an
exclamation beside me at the taffrail, and Renshaw
leaned his elbows upon the rail and looked over at
the sinking sailor. Their eyes met for an instant,
and Tim made a grab for the line. He was hauled
up quickly, and went forward without a word of
excuse to the captain and Hawkson’s inquiries as
to how he happened overboard.
It was a strange occurrence, and I pondered over
it that evening while the barque rolled slowly toward
the islands under a bright moon, and our watch
.bn 098.png
.pn +1
stretched themselves upon the main-hatch to smoke
and spin yarns. Tim avoided me.
The next morning we found ourselves close to
New Providence Harbour, the white water of the
Great Bahama bank stretching away on all sides.
The skipper seemed to know the bank pretty
well, for he sprung his luff and headed into the
harbour without waiting for a pilot. We ran close
in, clewing up the topsails as we went; then dropping
the head-sails, let go the hook within pistol-shot
of the town of Nassau. The town looked inviting
enough. There it lay, and any kind of a
swimmer could make the beach easily. In fact,
before we had the sails rolled up there were niggers
alongside, swimming out in utter disregard for
sharks, and begging for a coin to be tossed overboard
that they might dive for it and catch it before
it reached the bottom. I was anxious about
Tim. His strange action and talk made me expect
some peculiar happening, and I watched him closely.
Martin came to me as I stood in the fore-rigging
and spoke, looking longingly at the white coral
beach, where the cocoanuts raised their bunchy,
long-leaved tops into the hot air and rustled softly
an invitation to the sailor.
“I say, Heywood, ye dare do it or no, hey?” he
said.
“I’ll see,” I answered; “but isn’t the barky all
.bn 099.png
.pn +1
right? We’ve been treated mighty well even if
we were gulled in signing into her. I don’t know
the place, and we might be a great deal worse off
ashore.”
“Barky be sunk! What the devil care I for the
barky, man? Didn’t I sign on as mate?”
Bill came down from aloft and joined us, and
then big Jones came forward with Tim. We made
a pretence of coiling down running-gear on the
pin-rail, while we gazed longingly at the shore.
While we looked, a whale-boat shot out from
the landing. It was rowed by eight strapping blacks,
the oars double-banked, and in the stern-sheets were
two men in white linen, looking very cool and trim
in the hot sunshine. As the craft drew nearer, we
saw she was heading for us, and the two men were
gazing at our quarter-deck, where Hawkson and
Captain Howard were talking earnestly with Hicks
and Renshaw. The one who was steering was a
medium-sized man with a smooth, red face, his
beard seeming to start just beneath his chin and
fill his collar with its shaggy growth that shot upward
from somewhere below.
Behind this man in the stern-sheets, I caught the
flutter of a dress, and soon made out the figure of
a young girl dressed in white muslin.
“Who is it?” asked Bill. “Looks youst like
an admiral.”
.bn 100.png
.pn +1
“It’s Yankee Dan,” said Tim. “I thought so.
That’s his daughter with him. He’s the biggest
trader north o’ Cuba.”
“The deil run away with him,” said Martin.
“If he’s backin’ this barque fer nothin’ but plain,
honest trade, I’m no man fer him. She ware a
pirit once, why not again? I slip before dark. Will
ye be the mon to follow, ye giant Jones, or be ye
nothin’ but a beefy lout like what ye look?”
The big fellow scowled at this.
“Ef you are the better man, show me to-night,”
said he.
The boat had now drawn up alongside, and the
bearded fellow in charge stood up and hailed the
quarter-deck, where Howard, Hawkson, and the
rest were leaning over the rail watching him. Hicks
and Renshaw bowed and removed their hats in deference
to the young lady, but Hawkson and the
skipper stood stiff.
“Didn’t expect to see you, Howard,” cried the
trader. “They haven’t hung you yet! How is it?
Rope scarce? Lines give out? This is my daughter,--and
you’ll be damn civil to her if you’ll do
any business with me. Swing over your ladder,
and don’t keep me waiting. I won’t wait for you or
any other bull-necked Britisher.”
Hawkson had already had Mr. Gull swing out
the accommodation ladder from the poop, and the
.bn 101.png
.pn +1
second mate simply lowered it an inch or two as the
whale-boat swept up.
“Take in them oak gales,” roared Yankee Dan,
whacking the stroke oarsman over the knuckles
with a light cane he carried. Then pulling savagely
upon the port tiller-rope, the boat swung up alongside
the ladder under full headway.
“Stop her,” he bellowed.
It looked as though she would go rasping along
the whole length of the barque with the impetus,
but the blacks were instantly at the rail, grasping
and seizing anything in their powerful hands, while
one man forward, who had banked the bow oar,
stood up with a huge hook and rammed its point
into our side to check her. She brought up so
suddenly that the trader was almost thrown from
his feet.
“Come aboard, Whiskers, an’ don’t tear all our
paint off,” said Hawkson, swaying the man-ropes
so they fell aboard.
The old trader glanced upward, the white hair
of his beard sticking out aggressively over his collar
and framing his otherwise hairless face in a sort of
bristling halo. I saw the young girl flash a glance
of disdain at the poop and then seize the man-ropes.
She sprang lightly upon the ladder and mounted
rapidly to the deck, followed by the younger man,
.bn 102.png
.pn +1
who had replied to none of the salutations and had
quietly awaited events.
Yankee Dan followed and seized Hawkson’s hand,
greeting him as an old friend. Then he slapped
Captain Howard a rousing blow upon the back and
introduced his daughter. Mr. Curtis shook hands
all round, appearing to know every one, and we
rightly surmised that he was the principal owner.
The vociferous trader kept talking in high good
humour, being on familiar terms with Hicks, Renshaw,
and the captain, and our men were anxious
to hear his words, hoping to gather something in
reference to our cruise. As for me, I found my
attention drawn more toward the young lady, for
never had I seen such perfection in womanly form
or feature.
She was tall, and her figure, while not stout, had
a supple fulness that spoke of great strength and
grace. Her face was full and rosy, and her dark
eyes were exquisitely bright, glancing quickly at
a word or look. Her mouth, partly open, showed
strong white teeth, and her smile was a revelation.
There was nothing about her that spoke of her
father save her apparent good humour and disdain
for conventionalities. Her eyes were gentle, and
had nothing of the fierce twinkle of the trader’s.
Altogether I was so entirely taken up noting her
.bn 103.png
.pn +1
charms that I was not aware of Mr. Gull until he
came close to us and bawled out:
“Clear away the long-boat. All loafers who are
tired of the sea and want a run on the beach get
ready to go ashore.”
.bn 104.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XI. | WE MAKE A DAY OF IT
.sp 2
“Did you fellers hear me?” asked Mr. Gull,
coming toward Martin and the rest of us.
“Harkee, Mr. Gull,” said the Scot, “d’ye mean
we can clear ef the wessel don’t suit? Is that the
lay o’ it? She’s a fine ship, Mr. Gull, an’ fer me
ye can lay to it. I’d never leave her, unless it’s the
wish o’ the matchless officers that commands her.”
“If you drunkards ain’t aboard again by eight
bells to-night, it’ll be a sorry crowd that’ll come
next day,--an’ ye can lay to that, ye fine Scotchman,
an’ with just as much scope as ye may care
for.”
Big Jones smiled as he unbent the boat tackle.
It was evident our second mate was not as big a
fool as he looked, but it seemed strange we should
be allowed ashore unless the captain had good reason
to believe we could be back aboard again. Only
a few minutes before we were planning some desperate
means of reaching the beach, and now the
.bn 105.png
.pn +1
invitation was offered to all who cared to avail themselves
of the captain’s liberality.
In a very short time the boat was overboard, and
a liberty crew, consisting of Martin, Tim, Big Jones,
Bill, Anderson, a Norwegian of Gull’s watch, a German
called Ernest, the black cook, and myself,
jumped into her and started off.
“If I come back again,” said Jones, “they’ll
need a good, strong heavy man over there or a pair
o’ mules to drag me.”
“Good-bye,” said Bill. “Youst keep awake when
we come alongside. ’Twould be a pity to rouse
you,” and he grinned knowingly at the men who
leaned over the rail to see us depart.
I saw the old rascal Watkins come out in the
waist and stand a moment gazing after us, and
Ernest bawled out a taunt in German which none
of us understood. Then we shot out of hearing
and headed for the landing, as wild for the beach
as so many apprentices.
The “Doctor,” who was a most powerful nigger,
grinned in anticipation of the joys on the shore.
His clothes were nondescript and bore evidence of
the galley, and his feet were big, black, and bare.
“Yah, yah, yah!” he laughed, “my feet is
laughin’ at my pore ole body, all rags and grease.
Dey’ll hab a time asho’. Ain’t seen no green grass
lately.”
.bn 106.png
.pn +1
The boat was run upon the coral, and all hands
sprung out without waiting to shove her up. We
splashed ashore through the shallow water, leaving
the Doctor to haul the boat up and make her
fast. It was evident he intended going back aboard,
but we were a bit differently inclined.
The black soon joined us and led the way to the
nearest rum-shop, the place all sailors steer for,
and, without comment, we filed into the dirty hole
for our first drink.
“I says, Thunderbo’, give us disha stuff they
says do a nigger good,” said the Doctor, who
acted as our pilot. “My feet is sure laffin at my
belly, Thunderbo’, ’cause it’s as empty as yo’ haid.”
Thunderbore, who was a huge, nautical-looking
pirate as black as the Doctor, showed a set of
white teeth and a large jar of a vile fluid which
fairly tore my throat to ribbons as I swallowed my
“whack.” Big Jones took his with a grimace, and
was followed by Martin and the rest until all had
drunk.
The stuff was pure fire, but the Doctor gulped a
full half-pint, and smacked his lips.
“Thunderbo’, yo’ sho’ ain’t gwine to make a po’
nigger drink sech holy water as disha. Give us
somethin’ that’ll scratch, yo’ ape, or I’ll have to
take charge here,--I sho’ will,” said the Doctor.
Thunderbore had a good temper, but was used to
.bn 107.png
.pn +1
dealing with all classes of desperadoes. He passed
the jar again, and drew a Spanish machete or corn-knife
from his belt. He reached over and smote
the Doctor playfully a blow with the flat of it that
sounded with a loud clap through the dirty den.
Some of the men laughed in derision, but the
Doctor showed his ugly teeth and glared at the
den-keeper. He took another drink, and the fiery
liquid began to show its effects. Even Martin’s
eyes looked queer after a second taste, and he edged
toward the huge, smiling African who held the jar
and knife.
“I weel ken ye a murderer by yer eye,” said he,
“but dare ye lay aside the steel an’ stand forth,
I’ll trim ye, ye black ape. I’ll trim ye for th’ sake
o’ the good wittles the Doctor has cooked.”
The pernicious effect of the liquor was showing
in the men’s faces. Even I, temperate and peacefully
disposed as I always am, began to feel a desire
to assert myself in a manner not in keeping with
my usual modesty. In fact, there were some there
who were so drunk they actually accused me afterward
of having precipitated trouble by driving my
fist into the good-natured Thunderbore’s anatomy
and seizing his machete. If I did such a thing, it
must have been in the same spirit of playfulness
that he exhibited when smiting the Doctor, for I
was that peacefully inclined that even after seeing
.bn 108.png
.pn +1
a struggling pile of human forms upon the floor,
with the jar beneath them, I tried to separate a few
with all my strength. After exhausting this, I
remember Tim cautioned me to leave the intemperate
fellows, who still struggled, threatened, and
swore at the black Thunderbore, who, with several
friends who had rushed from an adjoining room
to his aid, now held the sailors at bay with a boarding-pike.
This he jabbed furiously at the Doctor,
and, because Big Jones would not allow him to be
impaled upon it, the sea cook took offence and turned
upon his saviour, with Martin as an able ally.
The whole scene soon resolved itself into a sailors’
brawl, which I feel ashamed to describe. I therefore
withdrew with my companion Tim, who was
almost as averse to a quarrel as I was myself.
We left the den, and he guided the way through
the white streets of coral rock, which shone glaringly
in the sunshine. They were dazzling, and
the light made my head swim a bit, but we kept on
until we ran into a shady lane, where an old negress
had a small shanty, in front of which she displayed
a litter of shaddocks, sour-sops, and sapodillas.
Tim purchased some of the fruit, and then we struck
into the bush until we reached a small inlet. Here,
in the clear water into which one could see several
fathoms, we plunged, leaving our clothing upon
the bank.
.bn 109.png
.pn +1
“That settles it for me,” I said. “I’ll not go
back in that ship. Even Mr. Curtis, with all his
money and influence, can’t get me back.”
“Mr. Curtis is closely related to the governor,
and can get you easy enough if he wants you,”
said Tim. “But I feel myself like making the jump
right here. I’ve been here before. There ain’t
nothin’ can get off the island without he knows
it. That’s the only thing that keeps me from it.”
“I thought you were so keen for me to get out
here,” I said, sourly.
“I didn’t suggest Nassau, did I?” said Tim.
“That’s the place,” I answered, “but I suppose
you were a bit loony. What made you act bug-house
and go over the side, hey?”
Tim looked at me strangely a moment.
“I didn’t mean you to jump right here. You
can’t do it. They’ll have us back aboard to-morrow.
Wait till we get to the s’uthard for wood. There’ll
be a chance on the Caicos or Turk’s Island, and
we go in there.”
I swam about, enjoying myself as much as possible
with a rising temper at the thought of going
back aboard. I began to study the question, and
asked about the size of the island and the distances
to the different points on the Bahama bank. Tim
had been all over the bank, and knew it pretty well,
.bn 110.png
.pn +1
and I became absorbed listening to him and forming
my plans.
Suddenly it occurred to me I needed a smoke,
and started for the shore to get my pipe out of my
clothes. We could sit naked in the shade and enjoy
life a bit while trying a scheme.
“Where the deuce did you put those clothes?”
I asked Tim, who followed me.
“I never touched them. What’s the matter?”
“I don’t see them anywhere,” I answered, suspiciously.
We were both on the bank, and stood there gazing
about us. There was nothing in the shape of
a garment near, not even a handkerchief. Tim’s
white, freckled body looked rather meagre, and I
noticed several huge flies that lit upon him and made
him jump with their bite. Then something got
foul of my back and stung me madly.
“Devil nab me,” I yelled, “what the mischief
is it?”
“Nothin’ but a fish-fly,” said Tim, slapping me
a rousing whack between the shoulders. “Our
clothes are gone all right, and we’ve got to foot
it back to the landing naked. What’s the use
growlin’ about it?”
“Well, you are a--” but words failed me. That
couldn’t express what I felt. I had trusted to Tim’s
knowledge of the place, and here was a mess. There
.bn 111.png
.pn +1
was no possible means of clearing out without a
stitch of clothing, and the rascally thief who had
taken ours gave me an idea how closely a deserter
would be followed over the low island barren of
heavy timber. I looked along the bank, and saw
there was no use.
“You’re the biggest fool I ever knew,” I finally
said, and we started slowly back to the town, with
nothing to clothe us save an air of seeming chastity
not at all in keeping with civilization.
.bn 112.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XII. | HOW THE DAY ENDED
.sp 2
Immodesty is the principal vice I do not possess.
When we started to get back to The Gentle
Hand clothed in the odour of sanctity and villainous
liquor, I must say my heart failed me at the sight
of the town. We halted at the outskirts and tacked
ship, standing for the house of a conch, as the
Bahama bank men are called. The mosquitoes and
flies had by this time made life almost unbearable,
and something had to be done. I objected to stealing
on principle, but in practice I expected to err,
for, if a suit of clothes could be found not too dirty
to wear, I felt it my duty to quell my scruples in
the interest of the self-respecting citizens of Nassau.
“Tim,” said I, “you little speckled leopard, you
shall go in front. You have, at least, some large
brown spots to cover your hide, while I’m as pure
white as the coral road we’re walking on.”
Tim demurred at this.
“What’s the matter with you? Put your hulking
.bn 113.png
.pn +1
carcass in front, and I’ll walk behind. There’s
no use making fun of the thing. You strut about
big enough on deck, glad enough to have any one
notice you--Hi! there’s an’ ole nigger woman
now,” and he crouched down in the long grass.
I sank instantly and hailed the old lady.
“Hi, there! Mammy, have you a spare--er--er
pair--I mean an apron or two you could lend?”
“Lawd sakes! How yo’ scart me!” cried the
old negress. “Where yo’ is, honey?” and she
looked about her.
“We’re over here in the grass. Lost our clothes
while swimming. Don’t come over, but just fetch
out a bit of dunnage and run away, that’s a good
ole gal,” I said.
“Run away! Huh! Who is you toe tell me to
run away. I’se Mr. Curtis’ nigger, an’ I doan’ run
fo’ no one, I jest tell yo’ dat,” and she advanced
toward us.
“Ah, trot along,” growled Tim. “Get us some
clothes, or we’ll take some. We haven’t time to fool
with any blamed old nigger.”
She advanced close to us, and I noticed she held
a small black baby in her arms. Tim edged behind
me, and I tried to shove him in front.
“Land sakes alive!” she cried. “He, he, he,
yah, yah! Well, I nebber. Yo’ is sho’ nuff nakid.
Jest as nakid as this little babe under his clothes.
.bn 114.png
.pn +1
Yah, yah, he is sho’ just as nakid as you is under
his clothes. Well, I nebber--”
But we waited no longer. The situation was too
humiliating, and we sprang to our feet and dashed
down the path into the scrub.
“What the deuce will we do?” I asked, when
we were out of sight. “If she wasn’t a woman,
I’d rip her clothes off pretty quick and make shift
of her skirt.”
“S’pose we lay for some man, then,” said Tim.
“Seems to me you might turn your knowledge of
scrappin’ to some account.”
“I’ve a notion to practise a bit on you, you
speckled beauty,” said I, angrily. “It’s your foolishness
that got us in this fix.”
“Here comes a feller your size. Try him.”
I turned and followed his gaze, and there, sure
enough, loomed a huge black conch with a bucketful
of sour-sops in either hand, striding up the path.
Hung over his shoulder was a long blacksnake
whip, such as overseers sometimes used upon refractory
slaves.
“Hi, there, uncle,” I cried, “I would like to
buy some sops,” and we both stepped forth into
view.
The fellow’s ugly visage wrinkled, and he set
his buckets upon the ground.
“Who is yo’?” he asked, sourly.
.bn 115.png
.pn +1
“We? Why, we are visitors, friends of Mr.
Curtis,” I said. “We left our clothes over there
at the inlet, and some son of a polecat ran off with
them. Give us some sops and give us a shift. We’ll
pay you well for it.”
“Whar’s yo’ munny?” he growled.
“In our clothes. Sink you for a fool nigger, you
don’t suppose we have pockets in our skins, do
you?”
“Who yo’ callin’ a fool nigger?” and he drew
his whip over his shoulder. “Don’t yo’ call me
no names, yo’ po’ white trash. I’ll cut yo’ toe ribbons,
dat I will.”
Before either of us could spring aside, the lash
flew out and caught first one and then the other
of us on our naked bodies. The pain was awful.
Tim dashed up the path instantly without waiting
for a second dose, and the huge conch sprang after
him, leaving me behind.
Away they went, the lash flying out like the
tongue of a snake, landing every time upon that
part of poor Tim’s anatomy which is said to be
equally discourteous to present to either friend or
enemy. And every time it landed, it brought forth
a yell. I stood grinning for an instant, in spite
of the pain I suffered, and then the sense of outraged
decency getting the best of my risibilities,
I launched myself full speed in pursuit.
.bn 116.png
.pn +1
Away we went up that trail, Tim’s speckled body
leading the way, his red hair streaming in the wind,
and close behind him rushed that big black conch
with his cruel whip, his bare feet not heeding in
the least a thousand things that pricked and pained
the soles of mine, as I tore along in his wake.
“Hi, hi, go it, Jackson!” howled a black fellow
who stood in the path and watched the race.
An upper cut with my left fist did much to abate
his zeal, and left him lying upon his back, while
with undiminished speed I went ahead. Soon the
white coral street of the town showed a bit in front
through the bushes, and in another minute we were
fairly into the main street of Nassau.
I was now thoroughly aroused, and forgot entirely
my predicament, so intent was I upon reaching
that rascal’s back. I called hoarsely for Tim
to stop, but, either because I was a bit winded or
our pace was too fast to allow the sound of my
voice to reach him, he heeded it not at all, but held
his pace under all sail.
White men now sprang from doorways to see
what had happened, as the yells came flying down
the thoroughfare, and many women immodestly
halted to view the spectacle. I don’t know how the
matter would have ended had not Tim turned a
corner suddenly, and plunged straight into the arms
.bn 117.png
.pn +1
of Big Jones and Martin, who were rushing for
the pavement at the sound of alarm.
The Scotchman, with rare presence of mind,
made a grab at Tim’s speckled body, thinking it
some peculiar breed of ape that had escaped from
its keeper, and in doing so lost his drunken balance,
and plunged head foremost into the stomach of the
pursuing conch, and together they rolled over into
the street. Before they could disengage, I had a
grip upon that conch that he will remember yet.
“Deil save us, ye cateran, what is it?” gasped
the inebriated Scot, struggling to his feet. “What?
You Heywood! Ye immodest heathen! Hold him,
ye black feller, an’ I’ll lay the lash upon his unchaste
hide.”
Before he could come to the conch’s assistance,
a speckled form sprang upon him and bore him
back again into the street, and I saw Tim change
from a fugitive into a veritable leopard, striking
fiercely and tearing at the blouse of the sailor until
it had parted and come away in halves. Just then
I had business with the giant conch that needed
attention, and I saw nothing more of that fracas.
The black man was a powerful fellow, but he
lacked skill. The blow in the stomach had winded
him temporarily, and, before he had recovered, I
was cutting him up scientifically with his own whip,
while the crowd hooted and cheered in derision.
.bn 118.png
.pn +1
When I desisted, he could hardly stand, much less
walk, and then Big Jones, who was enjoying the
spectacle, offered me his jumper. This I put on
by running my legs through the sleeves, after splitting
them, and buttoning it behind. Tim had by
this time divested Martin of his spare raiment, and,
dressed somewhat alike, we strode side by side with
much dignity to the boat, followed by Big Jones,
the Welshman, and an admiring throng of natives
who cheered us lustily.
Martin and the well-thrashed overseer were left
behind to compare notes, while, with the blue eagle
upon my breast fairly red with mortification, we
stepped aboard and shoved off.
.bn 119.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XIII. | A SURPRISING SALUTE
.sp 2
As we drew up alongside The Gentle Hand, our
peculiar attire attracted more or less attention.
Hawkson called vociferously for Hicks, Renshaw,
and the rest to observe us. Captain Howard threw
back his head and cackled away like an old hen,
his bald poll turning red with exertion.
“Sink me!” he cried, “but you two men shall
lay aft here.”
The Yankee trader shook with emotion, and insisted
that Mr. Gull fetch us aft to parade the quarter-deck.
This I had no intention of doing, so,
springing quickly into the channels, I made a rush
for the forecastle, and got below before we were
captured. But Tim was not so lucky. He was intercepted
by Mr. Gull, and escaped below only after
a vigorous chase, in which all hands joined, pelting
him with rope’s-ends and whatever they could lay
hands to. As the uproar of laughter on deck subsided,
we changed our jumpers for clothes, both
.bn 120.png
.pn +1
mad and disgusted thoroughly at the humiliating
performance we had undergone. But, tired as we
were, Mr. Gull turned us to with the men who had
stayed aboard and were sent below into the ’tween
deck, where the noise of hammering now became
apparent. Richards took no notice of us while he
was at work overhauling a pile of lumber brought
from the shore. Evidently he was disgusted at our
behaviour and took this way of showing it.
Jorg, the Finn, was working away with a gang
of men, building a platform around the sides of the
empty hold, and driving heavy staples into the
barque’s ceiling. He gave me a sour look as I
passed him, and then Mr. Gull led the way aft to
where Henry was at work cutting up planks.
“Better measure ’em off accurate, Heywood,”
he said, motioning to the pile of lumber that lay
near. “Allow six feet six inches fer them long
niggers, or they’ll be lame from hanging their heavy
feet over the edge.”
Then he passed on, leaving me alone with the
ferret-faced officer, who was sawing up a length of
plank. The long lines of staples with chains attached
began to have some meaning to me now, for the
effects of the run had done much to clear my head.
Henry saw my gaze following the line forward, and
stopped to mop the perspiration from his dripping
face.
.bn 121.png
.pn +1
“What d’ye think, will she carry five hundred,
hey?” he said.
The horror of the thing began to dawn upon me.
The chains and staples were for human beings. The
temperature of that hold, as it was, could not have
been less than one hundred degrees. What would
it be with a mass of filthy black humanity packed
and wedged in as tight as they could be stowed!
“Is five hundred niggers her rating?” I asked,
with unconcern.
Henry shot his fox-like glance at me.
“Don’t you really know no better’n that?” he
said.
“Slaving and piracy hasn’t been my chief occupation,
Henry,” I said. “My people have always
been respectable, and I have been a man-o’-war’s
man. Besides, my mother hasn’t been hung yet.”
“Well,” he said, wincing at this last part of my
remark, “law an’ justice air two different things.
It hain’t a penal hoffence to bring a fool into the
world, but it should be,--an’ a capital one, too.”
“I’ll admit justice miscarried in the case of your
parents, but let it go. Explain what’s wrong with
me. I don’t know any better than ask if five hundred
is this bark’s complement, cargo, or whatever
you choose to call it.”
“Well, if ye’d ever been in a slaver before, Hi
cudn’t hexcuse yer foolishness, Heywood, but, since
.bn 122.png
.pn +1
ye ask me, ye may note that this here ’tween-decks
will mighty nigh accommodate a trifle o’ five hundred.
What about the lower hold, hey?”
“Do you mean that they’ll fill her up solid with
human bodies?” I asked.
“Oh, no; they’ll let in a bit o’ air through the
hatch-gratings in good weather. The voyage ain’t
a-goin’ to last for ever. Say, d’ye think this is a
slow ship? You seen her run. Honest now, how
long d’ye calculate we be ’tween here an’ the Guinea
coast. A man, even a nigger, can stand bein’ shut
up a little while. An’ then, stave you, Heywood,
for a priest, don’t ye think a bit o’ sufferin’ is
worth goin’ through to be a good Christian an’ die
in the faith, hey? Every black bloomin’ son of a
gun’ll be as good Christian as you are afore he
dies.”
I said no more. When I saw Tim he showed
no surprise.
“I expected at least that,” he said. “It’s Yankee
Dan’s principal business. I was with them once
before, an’ that’s the reason I wanted you to clear.”
“It’s a strange Yankee that should be at the head
of such a business,” said I. “Now, if a Spaniard--”
“Stow it!” said Tim, angrily. “There never
was any other real slaver than the Yankee, an’
they’re the ones makin’ the most howl against it.
.bn 123.png
.pn +1
Nearly every slave-ship that comes here has a
Yankee shipper.”
This I found later to be only too true. It was
more than disgraceful for the fact that, even at that
time, in the Northern States there had been angry
discussions upon the question, the South being scored
heavily for the slaves it held from necessity to work
the plantations.
It was evident that the English governor winked
at the trade, and that few, if any, of our crew had
suspected before this time just what the barque’s
trade would be. As there seemed every prospect of
many of them not coming aboard again, I would
not worry myself about the matter when they would
learn the truth. As for Martin, he would be glad
to be in a slaver, and as for the morals of the rest
of the liberty crew, they were not worth considering
when pitted against a few English sovereigns or
American dollars. I went aft that evening to lower
the colours with a very disagreeable feeling at the
prospect in store.
It was always the custom aboard The Gentle
Hand, I learned, to lower the colours in man-o’-war
style when the vessel was in soundings, so I repaired
to the quarter-deck to load one of the after guns,
and stand by to set the sun.
Tim went with me, acting as quartermaster, and
I felt somewhat abashed at the presence of Miss
.bn 124.png
.pn +1
Allen, Yankee Dan’s daughter. I wondered if she
had seen me come aboard, and the memory of that
jumper put on upside down made my face wear a
smile that was not lost on Hawkson.
“Glad to see you lookin’ happy, Heywood. Yer
see, this ain’t sech a bad ship, after all. Put a good
big charge in that twelve-pounder, and p’int her
straight for the governor’s house, and let him know
there’s some say t’us. It never hurts to put on a
bit o’ side to these lazy rulers,” said he, as I began
unlacing the gun-cover.
“Do you want a shot rammed in it, too?” I
asked. “It might be just as well to stir him up
with a handful of good iron. It would probably
be small loss to his country if he happened to try
and stop it.”
“That’s where you show a lot o’ foolishness,” he
replied. “There’s devilish few men like him, and,
if his country can spare him, we can’t. By no means
let a shot get in that gun.”
While we were talking, Miss Allen came up the
companionway accompanied by Hicks, Renshaw, and
Curtis. She looked magnificent as she stood there
in the fading sunlight, her hair taking on a deep
coppery-red colour, and her eyes sparkling with
amusement.
“Will you let me fire it, Mr. Sailorman?” she
.bn 125.png
.pn +1
asked, nodding toward the gun which I was loading.
“Indeed he will not,” said Mr. Curtis, whom I
now observed to be a man of some presence, wearing
a single eye-glass and a look such as I had
imagined belonged to men much given to science
and books.
“You have my permission,” laughed Sir John,
winking awkwardly, “but, of course, you must not
disobey.”
“I have not promised to obey yet,” said the girl,
with a slight raising of the eyebrows. “Suppose,
Sir John, you allow your wit to flow in different
channels.”
“Wit!” growled Renshaw. “Don’t use the
word, I beg you, in connection with his speech.
One might really suppose there was such a quality
in his nature, since you suggest it, Miss Allen,
and much as I should like to--”
“Oh, stow it! Belay for the lady’s sake,” said
Sir John. “There is such a thing as talking a
person to death.”
“Between the two of you, she is in rather a
dangerous situation,” said Mr. Curtis, sourly, “but
I suppose there is some excuse for men who have
been at sea over a month.”
Miss Allen had heard little or none of this last
.bn 126.png
.pn +1
remark, for she was advancing to me as I stood at
the breech of the fine brass gun.
“Do you give me the lock-spring. I see it does
not need a port-fire like those ashore,” said she,
coming to my side.
“It is not time to fire yet,” I said. “Mr. Hawkson
will come from below and pass the word from
the old man--I mean, Captain Howard.”
“Why, he and papa will never get through talking
as long as there’s a bottle between them,” she
said. “Let me have the cord. What care I for
your Captain Howard?”
“Here, you fellow! Don’t give Miss Allen that
lanyard,” said Mr. Curtis, in a tone such as he had
probably been accustomed to use to his niggers. It
rubbed me the wrong way. I was entitled to mister
while on the poop.
I bowed and passed the string into her hand, and
noticed how firm and round were the fingers that
closed upon it.
“Fire whenever you are ready, Miss Allen,” said
I. “Jerk hard upon the cord.”
The next instant there was a flash and roar. The
blue powder smoke swirled over the harbour, and
the echoes were loosened in the bay, while over all a
slight, droning snore, rapidly dying away in the
distance, told of a twelve-pound solid shot tearing
.bn 127.png
.pn +1
its way through the quiet air between the ship and
the governor’s house.
I looked vainly to see the effect of the shot, wondering
how on earth the ball came to get into the
gun. Then the humming of the signal halyards
called my attention, and I saw Tim lowering the
ensign, with a peculiar glint in his eyes, while Hawkson,
Yankee Dan, and the captain came bounding
from below.
“What the devil has happened?” bawled Hawkson,
emerging first. “Who told you to fire that
gun?” and he glared at me.
“I just told the rascal not to,” said Mr. Curtis,
“and what does he do but deliberately do it.”
Captain Howard turned his mask-like face to me.
“Did you have shot in that piece?” he asked.
“Not that I know of,” I stammered, hesitatingly,
for, though I had heard the shot as plainly as he,
I knew nothing of how it came in the gun.
“You may put him in double irons until I want
him,” said Howard, dismissing the subject and
turning to the trader.
“He did not fire that gun, and shall not go in
irons,” said Miss Allen, firmly, standing before her
father and the captain. “I fired that gun. Now,
what are you going to do about it?”
Howard looked straight at her for a moment.
Then he broke forth into his cackling laugh.
.bn 128.png
.pn +1
“Nothing, of course. He, he, he, ho, ho! not
a thing. If you fired that gun, it’s all right. Ho,
ho, ho! Now, Dan, you’d better go ashore and
explain to the governor how your daughter happened
to send a twelve-pounder into his house.
When you come back, maybe you’ll think ten thousand
pounds is a big price to pay for the risk we
run, and maybe you won’t. If he’s in a good humour,
I doubt if he lets you land.”
.bn 129.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XIV. | I DECIDE TO LEAVE THE BARQUE
.sp 2
I was allowed to go forward, followed by Tim,
who gave me a queer look as he passed.
“What did you do it for?” I asked, when we
were out of hearing.
But Tim only looked sullen and said nothing.
“I have half a notion to report you,” I said,
angrily.
“Call away the shore boat!” came Hawkson’s
hail, and, before we had a chance to say anything
more, we were hustled into her by Mr. Gull, while
the negro crew in Mr. Curtis’s gig dropped to the
gangway.
Henry came in our boat, with orders to collect
his men and bring them aboard, and we had just time
to see the trader and his daughter embark with Mr.
Curtis, followed by the jests of the gentlemen aboard
who handed the young lady down the ladder. I
felt very grateful to Miss Allen, and, as her laughter
.bn 130.png
.pn +1
fell upon our ears, Henry turned and gazed
astern.
“If I know the governor, there’ll be trouble yet,”
said he. “That Yankee ain’t too well liked.”
As we drew near the landing, we noticed a crowd
gathering, and an official-looking person in a peculiar
uniform or livery came to meet us.
“I have a message for your captain,” said he.
“Is it official?” asked Henry.
“It is, and both imperative and immediate,” said
the man.
“I suppose, then, you want to deliver it?” asked
Henry.
“Your discernment does you great credit,” said
the man.
“Why! Wh-o-o-a! Say not so,” said Henry,
with impressive gravity. “In a hurry, eh?”
“I am, and it’ll be the worse for you if you delay
me any longer.”
“Now hark at that man!” cried Henry, as his
little eyes glittered. “Delay him! Here I am
a-goin’ right along about my business, an’ here this
chap comes up sayin’ I delay him. I’ll see the gove’nor
about this. Come along, bullies,” and he
sprang ashore, ordering us to follow.
“It’s the governor who will see you, you fellow,”
said the man.
“An’ him a-callin’ me names,” cried Henry.
.bn 131.png
.pn +1
Then in a lower tone, as we drew away: “Hi
reckon ’is ’ighness’ll get along without us. We’ll
want to hustle that crew aboard ’fore there’s trouble.”
This seemed harder to me than it did to the third
mate, and I smiled as I thought of Jones, Martin,
and the fighting Doctor. We quickly left the
vicinity of the landing, and hurried through the
darkening streets in the direction of the den kept
by the truculent Thunderbore.
They were not there, and we hurried on in the
direction the big conch told us they had taken,
Henry apparently confident that we would have them
in hand shortly.
As the darkness fell, and objects could not be
distinguished, the desire to desert the barque took
strong hold of me. Her mission was apparent now,
and I determined to make a dash for liberty at the
first opportunity. Tim’s peculiar behaviour troubled
me, and I was somewhat backward in taking him
into my confidence. However, when we struck into
an extremely dark street, I thought his knowledge
of the town would be of use, and I whispered my
intention of clearing. The next instant we were
plunging into the darkness, while Henry’s voice
bawled forth, dying away in the distance:
“Come back, ye blazin’ fools! Come back!”
We ran wildly up the street until it ended in a
.bn 132.png
.pn +1
thick thorn hedge, into which I foolishly plunged,
getting badly scratched for my pains. The impetus
of the run sent me through and into a ditch beyond,
followed by Tim, who plunged through the opening
my body had made. He landed heavily upon me,
knocking the breath out of my body, and for awhile
I lay there unable to rise. Then Mr. Henry’s voice,
cursing a couple of fools, sounded unpleasantly near,
and I started up, resolved to make a fight if necessary.
The little mate, however, refused to seize us, even
though he could easily have done so, as he reached
the bank of the ditch before we could get clear.
He tried to argue the question, preferring words
to blows in the darkness, doubtless fearing the knife
in such an encounter.
“What’s the meanin’ of it, anyways?” he asked.
“What yer runnin’ fer?”
“Go on, Henry,” said I. “Go get the men, but
don’t try to get me back aboard the slaver, or there’ll
be trouble.”
“Well, where ye a-goin’? What’s the sense o’
playin’ the fool when you have to be a man, anyways.
I ain’t goin’ to te’ch you, but I’ll say right
here you’ll probably get irons for tryin’ this fool
trick.”
“When I’m aboard, we’ll discuss the irons. Now
stand clear, or there’ll be trouble.”
.bn 133.png
.pn +1
Tim and I started across the clearing, heading
for a light we saw in the distance. Henry declined
to follow, and we left him swearing at our stupidity.
Going on, we came to a pathway which led toward
the house, and we had hardly struck into it when
there was a rush of feet on the coral, followed by a
deep growling.
“Keep clear of the houses. Cut for the cover
back of the town,” said Tim, hoarsely.
As I sheered off, a huge animal sprang upon me
and knocked me down, fastening its teeth in my
neck and shoulder. I heard Tim cry out, “Bloodhound,”
and then he flung himself upon the beast,
while I tried my best to pull out my knife and get
the animal in front of me.
The dog let out a deep, baying cry as Tim struck,
and this was answered by several animals near the
house. I soon had my knife at work, and, in spite
of a lacerated shoulder, plunged it again and again
into the ferocious brute. Then he relaxed his hold,
and I stood up. A lantern flashed in the path, and,
before we could run, forms of men showed close
to us.
“Who is it? What’s the matter?” said a strong
voice I recognized as Yankee Dan’s. Behind him
were Mr. Curtis, Miss Allen, and the two stalwart
conchs who accompanied them from the landing.
.bn 134.png
.pn +1
It was now or never. The dog was evidently
done for, and we must run for it.
“Come on,” I said to Tim, and away we went.
“Halt!” came the deep voice of the trader.
“Halt, or I’ll fire!”
“It’s the sailors; don’t!” cried Miss Allen.
We were going pretty fast, and must have been
out of sight in a few minutes. Perhaps the trader
did not wish to hit us. At all events, his shot whistled
past, and we were soon out of range. Had he
known the loss of his dog, he might have taken
better aim.
We were soon in the thick tropical jungle, and,
as it was almost impenetrable, we were forced to
halt. We waited a few minutes to try and get our
bearings, and then worked out into the open again,
keeping away from all lights. In this way we blundered
along for an hour or two, Tim swearing noisily
at the darkness and obstacles that came in our
path.
“It’s all foolishness, anyhow, for you to clear
here,” said he. “They’ve hounds that’ll catch us
in half an hour, and there’s no way to leave this
island, without going to sea, before they hunt for
us.”
“Well, show me a boat,” said I, angrily. “Anything
that’ll carry a sail across the Florida channel
will do, and, if you think I’ll mind stealing it, you
.bn 135.png
.pn +1
know mighty little how I want to clear. I’ll face
the savages of the Florida peninsula before going
with that gang of nigger hunters.”
We skirted the town, and finally came out on the
shore near the harbour entrance. Here we could
find some kind of craft, for there were numerous
spongers and fishermen in the town.
Tim finally brought up on the beach and tried
to get his bearings. There was nothing in sight
that looked like a sailing craft, except a dim shadow
out in the harbour which gave promise of being
an able sloop, for the tapering line that went skyward
seemed to describe a tall mast. We cast about
to find some means of getting aboard without swimming,
for the water looked black and forbidding,
and the phosphorus flared weirdly in places, and
gave rise to a belief in the presence of that ugly
fish, the shark of the Bahama bank.
While we skirted the fringe of rippling waves,
which flamed and sparkled as they rolled upon the
beach, we heard the deep-mouthed baying of hounds.
“My God! I told you so,” said Tim.
“They’re a long way off yet,” I answered, surlily.
“A sailor ain’t much at running, ye know, an’
we haven’t all night to clear,” he answered.
“Well, you’ve forgotten your gait mighty sudden,
then,” said I. “How about this morning?”
But Tim had struck into a quick trot, and I followed,
.bn 136.png
.pn +1
for the deep, musical cry of those dogs was
anything but nerve-steadying, sounding as it did
through the darkness, when not a tree or house
showed us a place of refuge. It was take to either
a tree or water, and, as there were no trees, I made
ready for a swim, willing to trust the hidden monsters
below the surface rather than those of dry
land.
After running for a few minutes toward the town,
the cry of the hounds sounded louder. They were
evidently upon our trail, and it would be but a few
minutes before they would close with us, and then
capture would be certain. It might be well if we
were captured before the brutes seized us, for, judging
from the size of the one we had killed, they
would make things pretty hot if it came to a
fight.
“Into the water!” panted Tim.
We struck into the edge of the surf, splashing
through the water where it was but a few inches
deep, hoping thus to put the dogs off the scent.
In a little while, however, we found this failed to
check them, for, while they stopped a few minutes
at the spot we struck the water, they soon showed
sagacity enough to burst into full cry and come
tearing up the beach in our wake.
We were now nearing houses again, and in a
moment bright lights shone ahead. A large building
.bn 137.png
.pn +1
on the edge of the town showed lights in many
windows, and the sound of music and hoarse voices
came forth. It was evidently a place for fishermen
and traders to carouse, and we headed straight for
it as the baying drew close to our heels. The door
was open, and in we dashed, flinging it to in the
faces of as ugly a pair of brutes as I ever saw.
The hounds were evidently well trained to hunt
slaves, for they flung themselves against the panels
until the lock burst and the door flew open, letting
them into the room in full cry.
Our entrance into the company collected in that
place naturally caused some commotion. The big
Welshman, Jones, was in the act of footing a hornpipe
with a tall, yellow girl for a partner; Martin
sat with a mug of ale on one hand and a stout blond
woman on the other, and he fiercely squeezed and
pulled an old accordion, while the black Doctor
howled and patted time with his bare feet upon the
prostrate form of Ernest, the German. The rest
of the company were ranged about, looking at the
big Welshman, roaring or screaming as the case
happened to be.
For an instant the crowd stopped spellbound at
our headlong entrance. Martin was in the act of
hurling the accordion at us in his anger at being
interrupted. The door crashed in, and the two
black shapes leaped among them.
.bn 138.png
.pn +1
The hounds, with their flaming eyes and lolling
tongues, presented a hideous spectacle, and the effect
of their headlong plunge was too much for the
nerves of the drunken crew. There was a wild
howl of terror and a general scramble. I knocked
over one lamp, and Tim adroitly dowsed the other,
causing total darkness, and then above the wild din
I could hear Martin’s voice, roaring:
“’Tis th’ dev’l, man! Tis th’ dev’l! Gawd save
us, ’tis th’ dev’l himsel’! Coom out an’ fight like
a man, ye coward! Coom in th’ light, an’ I’ll whollop
ye like a babe, ye sneakin’ traitor! Coom out
an’ stan’ to a true Christian sailor--ho-oo-t!”
The screams of the women and bawling of the
men, coupled with the deep baying howls in the
darkness, caused a disorder hard to describe.
There were several windows in the large room,
but in the wild scramble these were overlooked by
some, and, before the hounds could disengage themselves
from the struggling crowd, Tim and I had
leaped out and were running wildly into the streets
of Nassau.
Windows were thrown open and heads peered
out, looking in the direction of the uproar, and I
distinctly heard several doubtful encomiums pronounced
upon the habits of sailors by some of the
more respectable residents of that not very pious
.bn 139.png
.pn +1
town. Then we fell into a walk, somewhat amused
at our sudden deliverance, and soon mingled with
the loungers upon the broad street, which at this
early hour was still full of people.
.bn 140.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XV. | OTHERS DECIDE OTHERWISE
.sp 2
After following the street for a time, we concluded
that our presence would be noted by the
natives, and we turned into a broad, poorly lighted
avenue, whose pavement shone white in the darkness.
Here the houses seemed of the better class,
and, as the avenue stretched away back inland to
the southward, we decided to get across to the
other side of the island, and trust to getting a
sponger or fisherman to take us to some of the deserted
cays until we could make good our escape.
“If you didn’t leave such a confounded trail,”
said Tim, “the dogs couldn’t follow us. But you
must be mighty nigh as smelly as a nigger, for they
never even slowed down after they hit it fair.”
I was about to make a rather warm retort to this
remark, but at that instant the door of a large house
across the street opened, and a boy appeared upon
the threshold. He was joined instantly by a large
.bn 141.png
.pn +1
woman, whose strong face in profile showed plainly
against the light inside.
Tim halted and seized my arm. Then he swore
softly, and stood gazing at them while they came
out into the street. The door was closed with a
bang by the woman, but not before I had time to
note her figure. She was huge. Almost as tall
as myself, and her shoulders were those of a prize-fighter.
“Georgie, you dear,” she said, “if you run off
this time, you’ll be sorry.” And her voice was
peculiarly gentle and soft, almost absurdly so for
a person of her size. She locked the door, and they
came toward us until we started to turn aside to
pass.
“Mary!” said Tim, in a low tone.
The woman stopped as if turned to stone.
“Who is it?” she asked, sweetly, and I saw her
face clearly as she looked full at me. She was handsome.
It was dark, but her eyes shone, and I could
see the firm sweep of her chin and the well-cut
nose and lips. She was not young, but she had
all the colour and vigour of a girl.
“It’s me,” said Tim, shortly.
The next instant the boy’s stick fell across his
shoulders with a loud whack.
“Clear out, you rascal,” he said. “How dare
you speak to a lady! Oh, it’s you, is it--”
.bn 142.png
.pn +1
In an instant the boy’s arms were around Tim’s
neck, and he was hugging him closely.
“Oh, papa, papa!” he was crying, while the
woman looked on silently.
In a moment Tim put him aside and stood before
his wife. The scene was strange, and, as I stood by,
gazing at them, I thought of what the little sailor
had told me.
Tim advanced and held out his hand. The woman
sprang forward and seized it, pressing it to her lips
and falling upon her knees.
“Forgive me,” she said.
But the sailor could not or would not answer.
He stood looking down at her a long time.
“Oh, Tim, Tim!” she pleaded, gazing up at him.
I was somewhat disturbed at the scene, for there
were people abroad on the streets, and here was a
fine, large woman, as good-looking as one would
care to see, kneeling before a pitiful-looking sailor,
who was as ragged and dirty looking as a forlorn
slave. If we were to make good an escape from
the barque, it was anything but the proper thing
to make a scene in the town streets.
“He is aboard the barque,” said Tim, slowly.
“Will you give him up and come back to me if
I get away?”
I knew he was speaking of Renshaw.
“Yes, yes,” moaned the woman; “only say you’ll
.bn 143.png
.pn +1
forgive me, Tim. I’ll try and help you get away.
You know I can handle a boat, and can come up
to you on the ship if you will let me--”
He placed his hand upon her head and bade her
rise. As he did so, two men came from the shadow
of the houses across the street, and I immediately
recognized Renshaw, followed by the bos’n, who
came respectfully a few feet behind him. Old
Richards drew up alongside his master, and stood
ready for further orders.
“Get back to your boat, sir,” said Renshaw, addressing
Tim.
The little sailor waited to see his wife upon her
feet. Then he turned, and I expected to see him
make a break for it, as he struck me as being pretty
good at running. But I was mistaken.
With a sudden lunge, he struck Renshaw a terrific
blow in the face. The next instant the bos’n
sprang forward and tried to grab him, and would
have succeeded but for the fact that my foot slid
out between, and Richards went sprawling in the
dust.
It looked as though things would take a more
serious turn, for Tim had now been in open mutiny.
Renshaw had fallen and struck his head on a piece
of the flagging in front of the house, and lay quite
insensible.
.bn 144.png
.pn +1
“For the Lord’s sake, Richards, let us get away,”
I said, as the bos’n arose angrily to his feet.
“Into the house, quick,” cried Tim’s wife, as she
led the way toward the door.
“He isn’t hurt half as badly as he ought to be,”
said Tim, pointing to the fallen man. “Take him
away, bos’n, before some one sees him.”
Then we crowded to the door, which was flung
open.
At that minute the deep baying of the hounds
fell upon our ears, sounding weirdly musical in the
night, and a few moments later human forms dashed
up the street, with the leaping animals straining at
the chains that held them, fairly pulling the men
into their tremendous stride.
“Way there! way there!” bawled a voice I knew
was Henry’s, and, before I could move, one of the
animals, with a howl, leaped straight for my throat.
All thought of escape was gone in an instant, and
I struggled desperately with the animal, while the
black conch beat and pulled to drag him off.
Finally, after I had my hands badly torn with
the brute’s teeth, they succeeded in quieting him,
and Henry clapped irons upon my wrists. Then
I saw Tim had also been taken, and was standing
quietly with his hands ironed behind him and his
head bowed forward, his thoughts evidently far
away from the barque or her crew. Upon the white
.bn 145.png
.pn +1
coral road lay a dark object, and, while I looked,
men raised it and bore it into the house the woman
had but left a few minutes before.
I stood gazing after them until Henry shoved
me roughly ahead.
“Come, git a move on ye,” said he. And his
fingers closed upon my arm like a vice.
We went some distance before reaching the landing
where we had come ashore, and I was more
astonished to find that, in spite of our wild run,
the boat was not only waiting for our return, but
had an uproarious crowd ironed in her. I could
hear the voice of Martin raised in an argument with
Bill, insisting the devil had taken charge and was
afraid to stand to a true Christian like himself.
And the big Norwegian would earnestly try to
strike him, and then bewailed his inability, owing
to his ironed hands. Above all, the deep roar of
Jones floated over the quiet harbour, joined now
and then by the thick tones of the Doctor bawling
for Thunderbo’ to bring him something that
would “scratch.”
We were hustled into the boat without ceremony,
and started for the barque.
As we drew alongside, Hawkson’s voice hailed us.
“Got ’em all?” said he.
“Hevery bloomin’ one, sur,” answered Henry.
“Knock off their irons, then, and let ’em turn
.bn 146.png
.pn +1
in. We’ll make a start early in the mornin’ if things
turn out all right.”
“There’s been a bit o’ trouble ashore,” said
Henry, climbing up the chains, and then he evidently
told Hawkson something of what had happened,
for Tim’s irons and mine were left on, and
we were hustled below, where we were hitched to
ring-bolts in the slave-deck.
Shortly afterward, the noise of the howling men
ceased, and I knew that they had either obeyed orders
and turned in, or had been gagged. It was
dark below, and I could see nothing of Tim.
I spoke his name softly, but received no answer.
Then I heard a voice, agonized and full of great
suffering, praying and pleading for some one to
come back again.
.bn 147.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XVI. | A TASTE OF COLD IRON
.sp 2
It was hard to tell just when the morning dawned
in that dark hold of the slaver. I was awakened
by Henry coming below and leading us both on
deck, where our usual mess of bread and coffee was
served for breakfast. Then we were told to lay
aft, and, following Hawkson, we entered the cabin
to hear our sentence pronounced by Captain Howard.
As we entered, that strange old rascal was at
the table with Hicks, engaged in a most peculiar
game. The cloth was divided up into squares like
a checker-board, and from opposite sides the two
were hard at it, and paid no attention to Hawkson’s
entrance. In a short time I found that “beef was
king,” that is, a plate with meat upon it could jump
a dish of bread or cup of coffee, as with checkers,
the person losing not having any more of that victual
for the meal. While they played, they ate from
whatever dishes they could reach, and were so absorbed
.bn 148.png
.pn +1
that it was not until Hicks jumped the old
man’s plate of sliced pineapple with a chunk of
salt beef that the old villain turned and noticed us.
Then he surlily demanded what was wanted.
Whether it was the loss of his fruit or memory
of the last night’s occurrence that oppressed him,
it was hard to tell, but his mask-like face showed
no feeling. He bade Hawkson stand us against
the cabin bulkhead, and called Watkins to hand him
pistols.
The old steward obeyed with alacrity, for it was
only too evident what he wanted them for. Hicks,
however, burst forth into a laugh.
“Hold on, Captain Howard,” said he. “You
forget this isn’t exactly a pirate ship. Bless your
old heart, you would pistol them both.”
“And I will,” said the old villain, cocking back
the flints of the weapons.
He had formerly had the playful habit of loosing
off one or both of his pistols under the table, to
suddenly emphasize an after-dinner argument, and
the rough habits of his early days stuck to him,
only now the weapons appeared above the board.
The game of grub, I learned, was one he had practised
with his mates in the old days when the gambling
habit had taken so strong hold upon him he
must play at something.
Hicks, however, would hear of no such thing
.bn 149.png
.pn +1
as shooting us without trial. The captain’s will,
he admitted, was law, but we were in an English
harbour and not on the high seas, and such action
might cause endless trouble if the governor heard
of it. Hawkson also urged the necessity of care
for the sake of the voyage, and indeed he appeared
somewhat worried about the matter until the pistols
were finally laid aside and our case taken up.
Tim was asked if he had anything to say why
the sentence of death should not be pronounced
upon him. It would be fulfilled, with the governor’s
permission, sometime that day. He had admitted
the testimony of two witnesses, who swore
they had seen him wound Renshaw.
He was silent and hung his head. Then he raised
it and stood straight before them.
“I don’t mind the sentence,” said he, “but I do
mind it coming from such as you.”
“You may gag and take him forward,” said
Howard. “He shall be blown from a gun.”
He was led away, and they turned to me.
What had I to say? Well, I had considerable,
and I told at some length how I had nothing whatever
to do with Tim’s case.
“You may drop him overboard with a shot to
each foot,” said Howard, as I finished. “Call away
the gig, Mr. Hawkson. I’ll go over to the governor’s
before he gets too warm to see any one.”
.bn 150.png
.pn +1
The whole scene, the entire lack of feeling, the
disposing of our cases as though we were simply
niggers, made an impression upon me that can
hardly be described. Then the old pirate turned to
his meal as though nothing had happened, and finished
his coffee, while I was led forward.
“Keep a stiff neck, Heywood,” said the old privateersman,
as we came on deck. “I believe you’re
all right. I’ve heard something of this Renshaw
before. He’s a feller of title, ye know, an’, if it
wasn’t for that, I could save the little red-headed
feller, too. But Sir John will insist on one o’ ye
goin’. Blow the little chap from a gun? I’ll see
he hears more o’ your story, an’, if worse comes
from it, I’ll--well, never mind. There’s plenty
o’ time between now and when the old man sees
the governor. He won’t do anything without permission
in port.”
“Don’t take any trouble on my account,” I said,
angrily. “I’ve tried to clear fair enough, and would
have gone but for Tim meeting his wife. I’d as
soon stand in front as behind the guns of a slaver.”
“You’ll never have sense enough to stand anywhere,
an’ that’s a fact,” growled Hawkson. “A
good ship, a good crew, and plenty of profit in sight.
D--n you, Heywood, I’ve a notion to take you at
your word.”
.bn 151.png
.pn +1
His fierce eyes held an evil light that I knew boded
no good, and his ugly mouth worked convulsively,
showing his teeth. I was aware my case was not
one to trifle with too freely, and concluded I would
hold my tongue. He left me with an ugly sneer, and
I went below attended by Mr. Gull, who eyed me
savagely, and hustled me with such energy that I
turned upon him.
“You want to bear a hand and remember that
a live sailor is worth a couple of fool slavers,” said
I. “It’ll pay you to be a bit more careful, Mr.
Gull.”
“Shut up!” he answered, and hitched my shackle
to the ceiling. Then he turned and left me without
another word, while I cursed freely and fluently,
with as much bitterness as a man can express in
language.
It was very dark, and I knew nothing of what
was going on above, although I noticed as I crossed
the deck that the fore and main topsails were hanging
up by their clews, all ready to sheet home, and
above them the royals were also hanging loose.
From this I gathered that there would be a start
made very soon, and even as I wondered at our
probable destination, I heard the distant clank and
rattle of the windlass. Then I recognized the Doctor’s
voice bawling the old refrain:
.bn 152.png
.pn +1
.pm start_poem
“Dey’s trouble ob-hyer, an’ dey’s trouble ober dar,
An’ I really do believe dat dey’s trouble ebbywhar--
Trouble--trouble--”
.pm end_poem
And I knew the mates were working the liquor out
of his black hide.
Soon the anchor was short, and then silence
reigned for a time, broken only by the scurrying
of a ship’s rat across the empty hold.
How oppressive the bilge heat was, and how
rank the stench of the hold! The barque had evidently
been built at a time when salting ships had
not come into fashion, and her old timbers stunk.
I tried to think of the events of yesterday, and wondered
what had become of poor Tim. I feared they
would give him the full penalty, for, although Renshaw
was a notorious adventurer, he was interested
in the craft, and was a friend of Hicks.
His position, also, called for summary vengeance
upon a common sailor, even though that sailor was
an American.
In my case, however, the affair was different.
I had done nothing to either aid or abet Tim in his
assault. I was deserting, and had admitted that,
but I knew nothing of the other affair that had
ended so uncomfortably and caused our arrest.
Hawkson knew this well enough, and it was with
him my fate rested. He might save me from a hanging
yet.
.bn 153.png
.pn +1
I stood wondering when and how the case would
be settled, and was very hot and tired, but the
shackle would not allow me to either sit or lie down
upon the deck. The pain caused by the strain upon
my wrists was intense, and I swore loudly at the
men who had forced me into the cursed ship.
Suddenly I thought I heard a laugh. I strained
my eyes in the direction whence it came, and soon
made out a shape sitting upon the lower step of
the ladder leading on deck. It chuckled and grunted
for some minutes, and I wondered what it was, when
it rose, and I made out the figure of Watkins.
The old steward came over and stood looking
with a hideous sneer upon his face. The light was
enough to see each outline of his features, for my
eyes were now accustomed to the gloom, and the
hatch let in a small ray of sunshine through the
crack of the slide.
“You seem devilishly well pleased, Noah,” said
I, with as much composure as I could muster.
He made no reply, but came close to me, and,
leaning forward, as if about to whisper something
in my ear, he seized that member in his teeth and
bit it slowly. The pain was intense, and I roared
out, wiggling to free myself from the monster,
but he held on for many minutes.
I was fairly sick with pain, but the old fellow
failed to notice that my legs were not ironed. As
.bn 154.png
.pn +1
I was unable to move, he had doubtless supposed
they were shackled.
With what remaining strength I had left, I kicked
him, and by excellent luck landed full upon his
stomach. He gave a grunt and doubled up like
a pocket-knife, falling away from me and lying
motionless upon the deck.
I mentally prayed I had killed him, and bawled
at the top of my voice for Hawkson and Gull to
come below. I might just as well have saved my
breath, for not a sound could reach the main-deck,
where they would evidently be at that time of day.
I tried to ease my ear a bit by pressing my shoulder
against the wound.
After a time that seemed an age, the pain let
up a little. I looked at the form upon the deck
before me, and saw it move and then rise and again
come toward me.
“You old cannibal,” I cried, “if ever I get clear
of these irons, I’ll cut you to ribbons for this.”
“If ever you do, you may,” he hissed. “How
would you like to shake hands on that.” And he
seized my irons behind my back, keeping to one
side from my kicks, and he twisted until I almost
fainted with agony. I roared and bawled and struggled,
but to no purpose. I could not shake the
horrible old creature off. Just when I thought I
could stand the pain no longer, and I verily believe
.bn 155.png
.pn +1
the fiend intended to kill me, the hatch was opened,
and the carpenter came down the ladder with an
armful of chains.
Instantly Watkins sprang away and disappeared,
leaving me calling for the fellow Jorg to lend me
a hand and keep the rascal off.
Jorg came stolidly below, and began shackling
his chains to the ring-bolts, paying no more attention
to me than to a man raving in delirium. He
looked at me curiously and shook his head.
“Youse’ll get over it, friend John, in a day or
two,” he said, and went on deck.
.bn 156.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XVII. | SIR JOHN AND MISS ALLEN
.sp 2
While I stood there, sweating in the heat and
pain below, expecting the reappearance of the old
steward, I heard the windlass at work again, and
faint cries as of men straining up the topsails.
Suddenly I recognized Hawkson’s voice near the
main-hatch, and a moment later the section was
slid aside and he came below.
“Get me out of this!” I roared at him, as he
came up. “Get me out, or there’ll be murder
aboard.”
“Steady, steady! D’ye expect me to turn ye
loose when ye talk of murder? Sink ye, Heywood!
what’s come over ye, anyways?”
“If you’re the man you claim to be,” I said, hotly,
“turn my hands loose, and stand before me for
ten minutes. Only ten minutes, Hawkson, and, if
I don’t kill you, you may eat me alive. You may
choose any weapon, and I’ll take my bare--”
“Tut, tut, what kind o’ hysteria is this? What’d
.bn 157.png
.pn +1
I want t’eat ye alive for? Sink ye for a crazy boy!
who’d eat a tough youngster like you, boy? What--well--oh,
ho!”
He had come close to me, and had noticed my
ear. Then he chuckled in his quiet way, his ugly
face working with amusement.
“Yes,” I said, “that’s the old steward’s doings,
and he’ll probably come back to finish me.”
“Well, well, oh, ho, ho!” he laughed. “Didn’t
I tell you the old fellow would try his hand on you?
But it’s a trifle; stand clear.”
Here he loosened the irons, and I stood forth,
rubbing my sore wrists that were now partly paralyzed
by being held so long.
“It’s all right. Go up on deck and lend a hand,
as soon as you get your head cleared up. Mind ye,
now, it was a rat that bit ye, understand? Don’t
make any more trouble. If ye want to kill the
steward, do it some other time. I had hard work
savin’ ye, an’ I don’t want any more trouble.”
I went forward, and, after bathing my sore ear,
I went on deck in time to see the last of Nassau.
The sun was shining brightly and the air was
hot, but the trade-wind was fresh, and we went to
sea at a rapid rate under royals. Bill asked me
where I had been, and Martin stopped me to make
some remark of the wild day before, but neither
appeared to know what had happened, save that
.bn 158.png
.pn +1
every one had gotten very drunk. Tim was not
aboard, and I never saw him again. He had disappeared,
and nothing but his broken irons were
left to tell of his departure. The bos’n, however,
was on watch, and he spoke vaguely afterward about
a small boat coming alongside with a woman in
it. Just what part Richards had played in the game,
it was, of course, impossible to find out, but before
long I knew that Tim and his family had made a
voyage across the Florida channel in a small boat,
and had probably succeeded in evading pursuit.
No further notice of the affair was taken by the
officers aft for reasons better known to themselves,
and Renshaw chose to remain ashore, taking no
further interest in the enterprise.
It was now evident that we had started on our
voyage for blacks, and that escape from the barque
was impossible. I was angry enough, but remembered
that desertion merited some roughness, and,
upon the whole, I had been pretty well treated.
Henry gave me a furtive look from his ferret
eyes as I passed him on deck. He had done no
more than his duty in chasing me, and I, therefore,
bore him no malice because he had been successful.
It was several days before he would trust himself
near me, however, and kept his eyes busy as we
went about the vessel attending to our various occupations.
.bn 159.png
.pn +1
The day was perfect for navigating the reef, and,
as my hands were badly used up, I spent much time
forward, watching the shoals and banks, that were
distinctly visible under five or six fathoms of water.
We could run in this, and at such a depth, with
the sun shining, a very small object could be seen
upon the coral bottom. Yankee Dan and his daughter
were upon the poop with Hicks and Howard.
The girl was to go with us as far as St. Helena on
our voyage to Africa.
Mr. Gull had volunteered this much information,
and the men were somewhat curious in their gaze
aft.
The passengers took no notice of this, but spent
the afternoon watching the reef or bank, the young
girl being much entertained by the various sights
upon the bottom.
In the afternoon I went upon the poop to clean
the guns and otherwise attend them, and the young
lady gave me a nod of recognition. She evidently
remembered that shot, for I found out afterward
it had cost her father a pretty sum, and for a time
it looked as if there would be no slaver cleared at
Nassau.
The governor, however, compromised on a handsome
fee for damages, as the shot had plunged
clear through his parlour, leaving only a small hole
in both walls to mark its passage. How much of
.bn 160.png
.pn +1
this fee found its way into Howard’s pocket, it was
hard to determine, but he evidently was not forgotten.
The affair was not alluded to again except
among the men.
Hicks scowled at me, but said nothing, and then
I kept close watch upon him, as he appeared to
still bear me some malice for having been present
at Renshaw’s mishap. He was a bold and unscrupulous
rascal, and would have taken a lively interest
in my jump over-side, had they insisted on it,
with a shot to each foot. His manner toward the
young girl irritated me also, for, while I’m far from
being a priest, yet there is a certain respect for
young women every honest sailor has, and which
was apparently entirely absent in this man’s manner.
They were evidently talking of Renshaw, for I
heard Hicks mention his name sadly in connection
with the dishonourable affair at the card-table that
had caused his abandonment by people of his own
class.
“I see,” said Miss Allen, “cheating over a game
of cards is highly wrong, but cheating a man out
of his wife’s affections is highly commendable. A
strange code of morals you Englishmen have. In
your class, perhaps, the money is more valuable.
Is that it?”
“Whatever his sins were, let us not judge them,”
said Hicks. “As for the class you speak of, I can
.bn 161.png
.pn +1
only answer that a wife’s affections are valued by
most men according to the wife. Don’t you think
a woman has pretty much the same gauge to measure
by?” And, as he spoke, he leaned toward her,
looking her straight in the eyes until she flushed
crimson.
“I have broken all of the ten commandments
for women,” said Hicks, slowly, still keeping his
gaze fixed upon her, “and I would break them all
gladly for the woman I love.”
“A self-confessed saint!” she answered, somewhat
uneasily.
“Well, slaving is not the least of my ambitions,”
said he, carelessly. “Perhaps you think there is
nothing in running a cargo of blacks? It may be
there’s little, but, if we were overhauled with your
father aboard and a crowd below, even ‘trading’
would not appear an innocent occupation.”
“I know it, but what can I do? Do you suppose
I think everything that papa does is right?”
“I would hardly accuse you of such lack of
judgment,” said Hicks, laughing and glancing at
Howard and her father in conversation near the
break of the poop.
“But because papa does strange things, you
needn’t think I believe they are good,” she said,
with some feeling. “As for slavery, it’s only wrong
in the abstract. How could the poor blacks look
.bn 162.png
.pn +1
out for themselves? They must be taken care of.
What on earth would we do without servants?”
“I was not trying to convince you that you were
a desperate pirate,” said Hicks, still laughing.
“Only to show you what a saint had the pleasure
of talking to you. When you have lived with me
a time, you’ll realize it better--”
“When what?” she exclaimed.
“When we’ve been married a few seasons,
you’ll--”
“When is a good word,” she said, angrily.
“How dare you speak to me like that, Sir John!”
“I dare much more,” he answered, quietly, his
handsome face setting into an expression of grim
determination, “but this is hardly the place to declare
it.”
I thought it was about time for me to leave that
vicinity, and I strapped the vent-cover on the gun
I was attending to ostentatiously, and started forward.
Hicks never gave me even a passing glance,
but, as I went forward, I heard steps sounding upon
the companionway aft, and, turning for a moment,
I beheld the head and shoulders of Mr. Curtis
emerging from the cabin. He looked a moment at
Hicks and the girl, and then went over to where
they stood, near the taffrail, while I joined the watch
on the main-deck.
As I went down the lee steps, I caught a glimpse
.bn 163.png
.pn +1
of Watkins in the cabin, making a grimace I could
hardly fail to understand. He was out of reach,
and I could only stop and curse him, until Mr. Gull
came out and asked me what was the matter. Then
I turned and lent Bill and Martin a hand at the
weather main-brace, for we had gotten well clear
of the bank, and were running off to the westward
on our course for the other side.
.bn 164.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XVIII. | THE BARQUE HAS ILL LUCK
.sp 2
I now come to that part of the narrative which
deals with the turning-point of our luck on this
cruise.
Since Renshaw’s leaving left much of the influence
to be desired out of the enterprise, Mr. Curtis
began to feel anxious about his responsibility in
the matter. It is true the gentleman was an outcast
from his own people, but he was a nobleman,
for all that, and the governor of New Providence
would be much influenced by him. It might be
necessary to have a friend at hand in case something
unpleasant turned up, especially as the laws governing
slaves were becoming more and more strict.
The bos’n was suspected in having aided Tim
to escape from the barque. At any rate, he was
responsible for him. He was an American also,
and often when the seaman would come upon the
poop, Curtis would find some harsh word to say
to him. Afterward he would complain to Howard
.bn 165.png
.pn +1
so bitterly at the bos’n’s insolence that the old captain
began to experience some of the landsman’s bad
temper.
The discipline of the ship had been good, save
for the incidents of the run on the beach. Now
the real cruise had begun and there was no more
chance for desertion, the strictest laws of a war-ship
were easy in comparison to those enforced.
This put much work upon Richards, and began
to make unnecessary friction between him and the
men. Between the hard feeling caused by Curtis
aft, and the steady grumbling of such men as Martin
and some of his followers forward, the bos’n
began to have an unpleasant time of it, and a most
desperate affray was averted on several occasions
only by his steadiness and coolness of temper.
One day the bos’n was called to attend to some
repairs on the wheel-ropes.
Mr. Curtis saw him, and either inadvertently or
deliberately jostled him as he came along the poop.
Hawkson saw the affair, and hastened to avert
trouble, but was too late. Curtis very foolishly
kicked the bos’n savagely and swore at him before
all the men of the watch on deck. Richards, true
to his creed, lashed out most vigorously, and knocked
the landsman half-way across the deck before Hawkson
caught him. It was only Hawkson’s steadiness
of purpose that prevented a general mix-up on
.bn 166.png
.pn +1
board, for Curtis insisted upon the sailor being
flogged. Richards swore he would kill the man
who laid hands on him, and, as he had several
friends forward, including myself, who would have
stood by him, and as he had the chief officer aft,
there was a deal of trouble before anything like
order prevailed. When the outfly was patched up
by Yankee Dan and Sir John, who saw the danger
of such affairs, there was no longer anything like
smoothness again. The bos’n never attempted to
give an order, and went about his duties with a
set smile, which I tried to fathom on several occasions
and received a cold silence for my pains. Then
I knew trouble was coming, and prepared for it,
caring little, however, just when and in what shape
it would appear.
For a day or two we dragged slowly over the
blue water. The royals would pull a bit in the light
air, but our wake was not a long one.
On the third day, I was cleaning the forward
gun to windward, gazing over the beautiful calm
water. To the southward the deepening blue of
the sky seemed to show in peculiar contrast to the
ocean, and, while I gazed over the vast distance,
the water streaked and darkened under the light
draughts. The royals came to the masts every now
and then, when the breeze died almost entirely, and
.bn 167.png
.pn +1
flapped gently, coming full again as the barque
swung herself to windward on the swell.
Miss Allen was on the poop with Mr. Curtis,
and that saturnine young man, Hicks, was standing
aft gazing at them with an expression far from pleasant
upon his handsome face.
I became aware of a low, vibrant, wailing murmur
coming out of the sunlit void to the south’ard.
It was like the cry I had heard before and had had
such an effect upon poor Tim.
Yankee Dan’s daughter evidently heard it, for
she straightened up and listened, gazing steadily
to windward. As the cry rose and fell, dying away
as the breeze increased, it thrilled me through and
through.
“What’s the matter?” asked Henry, who had
come up and noticed my intense look.
“Don’t you hear it?” I asked.
“S’pose Hi do; it’s nothin’. Have ye cooled
off?”
It was the first time he had spoken directly to me
since the affair with the hounds, and I took it for
an overture of friendship.
“If you squeeze my hand, I’ll brain you,” I said,
and held it out. He took it, smiling.
“What made ye bolt, anyways?” he asked. “Hi
could git ye anywheres on that island. Hi had to
pay fer that dog ye killed, too.”
.bn 168.png
.pn +1
He seated himself beside me, as it was nearly
eight bells, and we talked a few minutes, he describing
the amusement caused by the two hounds loosed
into the room of Thunderbo’s dance-hall.
“’Twas a fine sight, Heywood, to see that bloodhound
grab the conch by the heel. If Hi hadn’t
stopped there to laugh it out, Hi wud ha’ bust wide
open. There he was hanging out the window, with
Jones a-pullin’ one way an’ the dog the other, while
the Doctor whanged him over the buttocks as they
stretched ’im over the sill.”
I felt little like laughing, although the scene of
confusion must have been amusing to an uninterested
spectator. Had he taken us sooner, the other
affair would not have followed.
“I cud ’a’ taken ye, but Hi had to laugh at that
conch,” explained Henry. “What d’yer s’pose
makes my fingers so big, anyways?”
“Poking them in other people’s business,” said I.
“An’ that’s a fact,” he answered. “Poking
them in other people’s business. Man, I was chief
garroter in Havana onct, an’ I ’as strangled more
men than there is in this ship. Hi ’av’ been a
detective an’ a executioner both. That’s how I
know how to handle dogs. Save ye, Heywood, d’ye
suppose Hawkson would ’a’ let you fellows loose
ashore ef he didn’t know Hi’d bring ye back all
standin’, as the sayin’ is?”
.bn 169.png
.pn +1
Henry had never appeared prepossessing to me,
and now his statement as to his vocation did little
to draw him nearer. On the contrary, he noticed
my look of disgust and wonder, as I scanned his
huge fingers.
“Never mind,” he said, with a grin, “’tain’t
likely they’ll be used on you, though Hi closed ’em
onct on the old man’s neck when he was taken
fer cuttin’ out them Spanish wood-hunters in the
Isle o’ Pines. They let him go just in time. Now
they use a screw, for there ain’t been a man there
since as c’u’d do the trick wid his fingers,--an’
old Howard insisted that Hi must stick to him for
a lucky boy.”
While he talked, I noticed the barque gave a
sudden heave of much greater inclination than usual.
She seemed to take a new motion, as though a swell
from the westward had rolled up against the trade
swell. I looked over the side, and noticed a long
heave to the sea setting at a sharp angle to the
slight rise and fall we had been riding. Henry saw
it also, and gazed to the south’ard.
Far away on the horizon a dim haziness seemed
forming in the otherwise cloudless sky. I looked
aft in time to see Howard come up the companion
and gaze around the horizon. Then he said something
to Hawkson, who had also appeared, and the
old mate came to the break of the poop.
.bn 170.png
.pn +1
“Take in them royals,” he called to the watch
on deck, and the men, who were expecting to hear
eight bells struck and dinner announced, had a job.
Henry sprang up and went aft.
“T’gallants’ls,” said Hawkson, laconically.
I pulled on the gun-cover, and had already gotten
it fast when the order came to clew up the mainsail.
Then, as I had to go aloft with the rest, I
joined Bill and Ernest in the weather main-rigging.
“Fallin’ glass,” said Bill. “I youst heard the
mate tell Henry. Ole Richards looks worried.
Didn’t think he’d take that interest, hey?”
We rolled the sail up in short order, keeping an
eye on the poop, where Howard was now squinting
away at the sun with his sextant.
“Eight bells,” came his hoarse croak, and a Norwegian
struck them off loudly.
“Roll up the spanker an’ foresail,” came the order,
and, instead of getting dinner, the watch turned
out with the rest, and all hands were kept busy.
Then came the topsails, and finally we reefed the
fore and main topsails, the barque rolling log-wise
in a very uneasy roll that came quickly from the
south’ard.
It was one bell before we were allowed on deck,
and then, all tired and hot, we scattered for cool
places to eat the deferred meal.
Hardly had we finished than a cool, clammy mist
.bn 171.png
.pn +1
spread itself over the ocean, and a good breeze began
blowing from the north’ard. The sun appeared
like a copper ball, and as it dimmed the breeze increased.
The swell now began running with a
tremendous heave from the southwest, and the
barque rolled her channels under. All hands were
kept on deck.
The black Doctor had just gathered the last of
the forecastle truck into the galley, where the little
Dane, Johnson, was allowed to clean them up, when
we heard a deep moaning to the south’ard. The
bank of the mist seemed to grow thicker. Then,
with a slow rising, droning roar, the hurricane struck
the barque and laid her over on her side until her
lee dead-eyes were a foot below the sea.
How Miss Allen and Curtis climbed down off the
poop, I could never guess. The deep notes of the
wind rushing through the rigging drowned all sound
save the cries of Hawkson and Gull, who, hanging
on to the poop-rail, bawled for the men to man the
braces and get the ship hove to.
It struck us full upon the quarter, and nothing
had carried away, although the straining strips of
canvas aloft seemed marvellously strong to withstand
that furious outfly. The sea was as white as
a coral bank, looking as though covered with a finely
drifting snow, as the wind swept the top of the
ocean level and drove the foam before it.
.bn 172.png
.pn +1
We were under the shortest canvas, and were
trying to get her on the wind before the sea made,
as it was sure to make, in a few minutes.
As we tailed on to the topsail-brace, I caught a
glimpse of Richards and Yankee Dan rolling the
wheel over, although the deck was as steep as the
ship’s sides. Slowly the old barque righted herself,
as she headed up within four points of it, scooping
her main-deck full of water, some of which found
its way below, as the main-hatch had not been battened
or caulked, and the flood rolled over it waist-deep.
Had we been taken aback, the topmasts would
surely have gone overboard in that blast, for it
was impossible to realize its tremendous power.
I could hear the captain’s hoarse croak from near
the mizzen, sounding faintly in the roar about us,
and I caught the look of Big Jones’s face as he
raised it over the rail and brought it back streaming
with the flying drift and gasping for breath.
Then we belayed the line, and started to get all
yards sharp on the starboard tack.
It was desperate work, but it was finished at last,
and, by the time we had a chance to breathe and look
about us, the barque was riding into such a sea
as seldom runs in the western ocean, her topsails
hanging in short ribbons from the jack-stays, and a
gale thundering through her rigging that bid fair
.bn 173.png
.pn +1
to drive her under by the sheer weight of the wind
in it.
There was no steady blow. Sometimes the roar
aloft would die down for a few minutes, and it
would seem as if the weight of it had passed. Then
would come a squall, snoring and roaring, rising
up into a wild chaos of sound that was almost deafening,
and the barque would be laid upon her side
for several minutes as it tore past.
Jorg, with the pluck and perseverance of his race,
worked desperately at the hatches to get them battened
down firmly. Henry and I managed to get a
large timber over the canvas cover, and, lashing one
end fast to the ring-bolt on one side, we hove down
with it until we could get Richards, Bill, Jones, and
the rest to pass a lashing, heaving the lever over
as tight as our combined weight could make it go.
I saw Hawkson waving his hand, and crawled to
him along the pin-rail.
“Go aft to the wheel,” he roared in my ear, and
I climbed the poop.
.bn 174.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XIX. | AND STILL MORE ILL-LUCK
.sp 2
As I crawled up the lee steps of the poop of The
Gentle Hand, I began to believe it was blowing.
I could not possibly stand before that blast. Holding
to the poop-rail, I worked aft and relieved
Yankee Dan, who had helped the man already there
by taking the spokes to windward.
All about the barque were the lowering banks
of scud, darkening the ocean now almost to night,
and flying with the rapidity of the wind. Above
was the deep gray of the heavy pall of vapour.
I glanced into the binnacle and noticed that the
wind had already shifted, although it had been blowing
less than an hour. It had become more and
more squally, and the blasts roared down upon the
barque with incredible force. The sea was ugly,
but instead of the great, rolling sea of the Cape,
it was a short, quick mass of water that flung itself
with appalling force. High as she was, The Gentle
Hand took them now and again over the topgallant-rail,
.bn 175.png
.pn +1
and flooded her main-deck waist-deep.
Soon her lee bulwarks tore away, letting the flood
have full sway across and overboard. This eased
her a trifle, and we strove to nurse her closer to
the wind, although, without canvas, the wheel would
have been as well lashed hard down.
For three hours more she headed up beautifully,
although sometimes the blasts would take her to
leeward and whirl her head up into the sea. Then
another would strike her full, and off she would
swing almost into the trough, while Hawkson and
the rest would struggle to get a cloth against the
weather mizzen ratlines.
Suddenly, after one wild, snoring rush of warm
wind, it fell dead calm. The sea was leaping wildly,
bursting over our bow one moment, and then the
next piling in amidships with a crash that tested
the strength of the old hull. She would seem to
settle under the load, and once there was nothing
visible forward of the break of the poop save the
end of her t’gallant forecastle. The men had to lay
aft and keep alive.
While the calm moments lasted, the air was oppressively
warm, and I noticed Hicks come from
behind the shelter of the spanker-boom and coolly
light his pipe, although the barque was rolling and
plunging so heavily it was hard to see how he kept
his feet without holding on. He made his way aft
.bn 176.png
.pn +1
just as Mr. Curtis emerged from the companion,
followed by Miss Allen.
The barque was plunging wildly, and I had all
I could do to hold the wheel-spokes. Suddenly I
heard a cry from forward. Captain Howard stood
clear of the mizzen for a moment and pointed aft.
Over the starboard quarter a huge sea rose like a
wall, then topped into a snoring comber, and flung
with the rush of an avalanche over the poop. The
dull, thunderous crash drowned all sound, and the
same instant I felt myself being torn from the wheel
by the flood. Then I went under, still holding on
with all my strength to the spokes, but feeling them
dragged from my hands by the prodigious power
washing me away.
When I came to my senses, I was lying against
the rise of the poop, where I had brought up
doubled over, my body on top and my legs hanging
in the swirl that rolled over to leeward. There was
no one at the wheel. The Norwegian had gone
overboard, and, as he had probably struck heavily
against the spokes, he was doubtless killed outright.
I crawled back, gasping and driving the brine
from my face. Then I remembered Miss Allen
and her lover, Mr. Curtis, and looked for them.
In the boiling foam of the side-wash a few
fathoms from the side, the girl’s head, with her hair
.bn 177.png
.pn +1
floating in tangles, showed above the white. She
was apparently swimming, though feebly, for she
must have been hurled far below in the cataract that
poured to leeward. Near her was Mr. Curtis, his
eyes staring at the ship and his face expressing
surprise and anxiety. He struck out for the barque,
and did not help the girl near him, or, in fact, give
her any attention until he had grasped the lee mizzen
channels as the vessel rolled down. Here he
drew himself up, and started to coil a line trailing
overboard to throw to her. I started to the side,
letting go the wheel, but before I reached the rail,
I saw a form plunge from the mizzen sheer-pole,
and in an instant Hicks rose to the surface almost
alongside the young lady. It was boldly done, and
I caught the expression in his eyes as he seized her
by the shoulder and turned toward the ship.
Hawkson was bawling out something, and I
turned in time to feel the first puff of a squall that
came snoring down upon us with a rush that made
every line sing to the strain. In an instant the
barque was laying over to it, and as it struck her
abaft the beam she started ahead.
Hicks was now alongside, and Curtis, aided by
Yankee Dan, was helping the young girl on deck.
It was a remarkable occurrence, happening as it
did in the centre of that hurricane, when the barque
was becalmed and without any headway. Otherwise
.bn 178.png
.pn +1
it would have been a certain death for any
one going over the side. In less than five minutes
the gale was blowing as hard as ever from an almost
opposite point of the compass, the squalls coming
with appalling force, sending us a good fifteen knots
an hour, with nothing but the bare yards aloft to
receive the pressure.
Two men came aft to relieve the wheel, which I
had rolled up with Mr. Gull’s help, and I had a
few minutes’ breathing space as we tore along, the
men forward trimming in the braces and squaring
the yards for a run before it.
Hicks stood upon the poop near the mizzen,
where he had climbed up, and he gazed after Curtis,
who, with Yankee Dan, half-dragged and half-carried
Miss Allen below. There was a strange look
in his eyes, and I saw him cursing in a sinister manner,
though what he said was lost in the uproar.
Then he joined the captain at the break of the poop,
where the old man had remained, having escaped
the flood by springing with the rest upon the
spanker-boom.
Sir John Hicks was a thorough rascal, according
to report, but somehow he showed up very well
with Mr. Curtis, who had been a well-known churchman
and piously inclined even to the time he had
bought his interest in The Gentle Hand.
As for the grim old villain in command, he made
.bn 179.png
.pn +1
no comment, but stood watching his ship without
a trace of anxiety upon his mask-like countenance.
Even as I watched him, he was calculating the time
to swing her up on the port tack to keep afloat in
that cross-sea, before which no vessel could run
very long.
I could hardly help thinking then that so much
nervous strength and control must have a limit
sometime. The old fellow had been through a good
deal, and certainly must have used up much of his
giant energy in earlier trials. I wondered vaguely
for a few moments when the time would come when
his stoical indifference and cruelty would be used
up and he become a debtor to nature. How would
the old man die? Would he be inscrutable and
implacable to the last? It would be a matter of
physical force with him, and he appeared pretty
tough yet, ready for many a rough fracas, and afraid
of nothing.
Yet I doubted whether his courage was any finer
than some others who were less reckless and held
responsibility as something of value. He finally
gave the order to Hawkson, and the deep voice of
the mate sounded above the booming, sonorous roar
overhead. A heavy tarpaulin was lashed in the
mizzen-rigging on the outside, so that the shrouds
might make a solid background to hold it against
.bn 180.png
.pn +1
the blast. It was an old hatch-cover, but of heavier
cloth than our topsail.
The wheel was rolled hard down just as a heavy
squall showed signs of slacking, and a comparative
smooth space showed to windward. The old barque
came quickly into the trough, and, as she did so,
the full force of the hurricane could be felt. Over
and over she went until her lee rail disappeared
beneath the foam, while above her towered a sea
that bade fair to drive her under as it fell aboard.
She lay perfectly on end for an instant, the deck
being absolutely perpendicular, and her yard-arm
beneath the swirl to leeward, and the weight of that
rolling hill broke clear across, the larger part of it
landing in the sea to starboard.
The shock was terrific. Both fore and main topmasts
went out of her and trailed alongside in the
smother. There was no sound save the thundering
crash of the water, but as soon as the men who
had saved themselves could move from their places,
we tried to save the ship. Hawkson, Gull, Henry,
Richards, Jones, Martin, and the rest made their
way forward by holding to the pin-rail, and we cut
to clear away the foretopmast alongside. All the
time the barque was on end, her hatches under water,
and the wild, booming snore of the hurricane roaring
over her, sending cataracts of water over her
t’gallant-rail. By desperate work we led the wreckage
.bn 181.png
.pn +1
forward, and towed it by a heavy line from the
port cat-head. This finally had the effect, together
with the tarpaulin aft, of pulling her head into the
sea, and after a quarter of an hour, every minute
of which I expected to see her go under, she began
to right herself.
Too exhausted to speak and half-drowned by the
seas, we hung on under the shelter of the forecastle
until she once more rode safely into it. I looked
into the streaming faces of the men, and wondered
how many had gone to leeward that day, and then
it seemed to me that slaving for wealth might not
be any better than I had originally held it to be.
Aloft in that gray pall the scud were whirling past,
and I found myself thinking of Tim and the cry
of the South Sea. A sailor is apt to get superstitious
even without reason, and it struck me that
there would be little luck aboard the old pirate on
this cruise.
When we had a chance to leave, we found that
one dago and the little Dane had disappeared from
among us, and, as the gale wore down toward evening,
there was a sorry picture of a black barque
riding the quick sea of the western ocean, her rigging
hanging and trailing to leeward from the
stumps of her topmasts, and a half-drowned crew
holding on to anything they could.
Before morning the hurricane had passed, and
.bn 182.png
.pn +1
we were again heading off across the ocean, with a
badly wrecked ship and an ugly, demoralized set of
men, cursing their luck, the ship, and especially her
officers in a manner that spoke of trouble ahead.
.bn 183.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XX. | WHAT HAPPENED IN MADEIRA
.sp 2
The days following that storm were full of labour
for all on board the barque. Rigging a jury
maintopmast, and securing the yards that had remained
fast to the line ahead, and which had acted
as a sea anchor or drag and thereby saved us, we
made the best of our way to Madeira. The voyage
was uneventful and long, owing to our wrecked
condition, but it ended at last.
During the days of toil the temper of the men
grew worse, and at one time Martin and Anderson
began to talk pretty freely in the watch below.
Howard tied the Scandinavian up in the rigging,
and was about to use even more severe methods,
but Hawkson and Hicks prevailed. He was apprised
of the murmurings forward by his steward,
Watkins, who took care he lost very little of what
went on.
Hawkson and Hicks, backed by Mr. Gull and
Henry, however, knew that to precipitate trouble
.bn 184.png
.pn +1
would ruin whatever prospects the voyage still held,
and they made it plain to the trader that his influence
was also necessary to curb the captain’s temper.
Together they held him in check, and we made harbour
without coming to desperate measures.
The behaviour of Mr. Curtis after the storm was
most peculiar. He prayed very often, and seemed
to develop a most pious disposition. This went to
the extent of asking permission to have the men
mustered on Sundays, so that by standing on the
break of the poop he could address and harangue
them upon religious matters.
The idea tickled Howard so keenly that he not
only agreed to it, but insisted that it should happen
twice a week until the men were in better temper.
It was being enforced when the towering sides of
Pico Ruivo rose above the eastern horizon.
Miss Allen had not been especially impressed by
these harangues, and this day joined Hicks upon
the poop, while the affair took place. Hicks had
been below, but had appeared forward talking confidentially
to Martin, and had passed a package
which the brawny Scot had taken below very hurriedly
just as all hands mustered. When Hicks
reached the poop, coming up the cabin companion,
we were already standing under the break, lounging
in various attitudes of inattention.
I hardly remember what Mr. Curtis said on this
.bn 185.png
.pn +1
occasion, but he pointed to the distant mountains
and waxed very eloquent. We had seen this land
before, but he had not.
“It is the prayers of us poor sinners,” said he,
stretching forth his hand, “that has at last saved
our barque from storm and calm. We are poor,
weak mortals, and must ask for help.”
“Who calls er mon like me er weak mortil, hey?”
came a voice from the crowd, and there stood Martin,
the empty bottle in hand, his eyes shifty and
dangerous.
“I’m a true Christian man, d’ye ken that, an’
if ye dare say I be ither, I’ll wallop ye like er babe.”
Curtis was off the poop in an instant, and there
was a mix-up that promised much in the way of
diversion, for whatever our preacher lacked, it was
not a quick temper. He seized the tipsy Scot by
the hair with both hands, and, in spite of the hoots
and wallops he received, was making a very fair
job of him when Jones and Henry separated them.
Howard stood on the poop and cackled away,
enjoying the scene, refusing to do anything to Martin
unless Curtis ordered it. This the younger man’s
vanity would not permit, and upon the whole it
was just as well, for it made the feeling a little less
uncomfortable forward, which was a good thing
for a vessel going into a harbour where crews might
be scarce.
.bn 186.png
.pn +1
There was some hesitancy on Hawkson’s part
about going in with such a large crew, for trading-vessels
generally were not heavily manned. It
might create enough comment to attract the attention
of a man-of-war, and even though our papers
might be fixed satisfactorily, a boarding of the
barque would be hazardous to a slaving enterprise.
At all events, it was decided that Mr. Gull should
take a boat’s crew and land upon the Desertas, the
rocks about a dozen miles to the southward. Here
they would kill as many wild goats and hogs as they
could, and await the barque’s signal before venturing
in, bucanning the meat for the voyage back.
We soon anchored in the open roadstead not very
far from the beach. The town of Funchal lay before
us to the north’ard, its terraces and vineyards
rising from the water up the steep sides of the
mountains. A very pretty place it was, and in a
short time the captain’s gig was called away to take
him ashore. Richards silently brought the boat to
the ladder, and sat stiff and motionless, a regular
man-o’-war cockswain. The whole after-guard, except
Henry and Watkins, clambered into the boat,
Yankee Dan and his daughter accompanied by
Hicks and Curtis.
The old trader had been somewhat subdued in
spirits during the latter part of the trip across, owing
to our loss of gear and the leaky condition of the
.bn 187.png
.pn +1
vessel. Now he spoke with his usual spirits, which
rose as the distance between him and the shore lessened.
“Sink me!” said he, “if I don’t try to show
these dagoes how to drive a trade for them topmasts.”
“I wouldn’t, if you intend staying ashore,” said
Hicks.
“Will I stay ashore?” said Miss Allen.
“Until we can ship you to the Continent,” said
her father. “It won’t be long before we put you
and Curtis aboard some ship for Havre. Then
you’ll both be safe.”
I had realized before this that Mr. Curtis was
looked to as the fowl who was laying the golden
egg for the enterprise, while Dan was to do the
trading. His daughter was the principal tie between
them, and she was, doubtless, the innocent lever
the trader had used to get the younger man interested
in slaving. It looked as if there would soon
be a marriage.
The girl had nodded to me as I took the stroke
oar, and I will admit I felt interested in her future.
Whatever Sir John Hicks felt, he kept it well to
himself, for he joined the conversation right merrily,
although his behaviour toward Mr. Curtis was
unnecessarily polite. We rowed swiftly over the
swell of the blue roadstead, and ran the boat’s nose
.bn 188.png
.pn +1
upon the sand, the light surf splashing into the stern-sheets
just enough to cause some scrambling for
dry places. Then the boat was surrounded by natives,
who plunged into the water regardless of their
white breeches, and offered to carry the passengers
ashore.
Jones and myself, however, placed a short board
for Miss Allen to sit upon, and then raised it to
the height of our shoulders with her upon it, bearing
her aloft, while she gave a bit of a scream and
fastened her fingers in our hair for support. Then
we strode ashore to the dry beach above high water,
with small regard for the scowling dagoes who
failed to earn their silver.
The rest were so busily engaged in getting ashore
dry that they failed to note that I seized the little
hand upon my head and kissed it fervently, much
to Big Jones’s delight and the young lady’s embarrassment.
“You know what they’d do to you if they knew
you were so rude,” said she, flushing.
“I’ve risked death for less pleasure,” said I,
touching my forehead.
“Then the fool-killer surely was not in the neighbourhood.
You forget your position,” said she,
haughtily.
“I was a mate once,” I answered.
“Well, you’re not now. If it were not that Sir
.bn 189.png
.pn +1
John--I mean, Mr. Curtis would kill you, I should
report your insolence.”
“’Tis a small deed to die for,” said I, “and, if
I must go, perhaps I had better make my end doubly
certain--”
At this moment Yankee Dan’s voice called, and
I turned in time to see him approaching.
Jones, who had walked toward the boat, glanced
back uneasily at me, but I touched my forelock,
having no cap, and left Miss Allen. The big Welshman
did not hear all of our conversation, but, lest
he retail part of it to the men, I took the trouble
to make it plain to him that such a trick would be
reckoned as a great discourtesy to the lady and
myself, and that a necessary settlement would therefore
take place. Jones, in spite of his size, was a
man of keen discernment and not without discretion.
He was silent.
As the island was well wooded with fine large
trees, it was but a short time before we had our
topmasts on the beach ready to take aboard and
set up. Jorg took charge of the spars, and we
floated them alongside and hoisted them on deck,
where he at once set to work upon them. Much
of the ironwork from the wreck we had saved,
and this shortened the job very considerably.
Within a week from the day we dropped anchor,
gant-lines were rigged and the new spars sent aloft.
.bn 190.png
.pn +1
The backstays were then set up and the t’gallant-masts
were sent up, one of these having been saved
from the wreck and the other cut ashore.
The work of rigging kept all hands busy day and
night, so we saw little of the town of Funchal.
We went ashore once to buy a second-hand suit
of t’gallantsails and royals, which were to be used
as good weather canvas, and have an old maintop-sail
recut, but there was little time even for sampling
the wines I had heard so much about.
While we lay there, a large American brig came
in and anchored near us.
She was evidently a trader by her look, and by
her build and rig she appeared very fast and rakish.
She flew the American ensign, and I was interested
in her. As soon as we had a little respite from
rigging, I asked permission to visit the stranger,
and, to my surprise, it was granted. Neither Hawkson
nor Howard appeared the least interested in
the vessel, and had neither received a visit from
her captain nor made a visit to him. When Bill,
Ernest, Martin, and myself took the small boat that
evening and started over to her, Hawkson called
me aside.
“Take a peep below hatches if ye get the chance,
and see what sort o’ guns she carries. Maybe ye’ll
care to change ships,” said he, with his ugly smile.
As something of this nature had really been finding
.bn 191.png
.pn +1
place in my mind, I suppose I flushed a bit.
I had intended to desert, should the brig clear first,
for slaving was no more to my taste now than
formerly. From Richards’s silent behaviour I felt
that I would not have to go alone, and I intended to
broach the subject to the bos’n that very night.
“All right,” I answered, with a sinking of spirits
I tried to conceal. “I’ll search her if I get the
chance.”
What Hawkson meant was evident as soon as
we came within a half-mile of her to leeward. A
most horrible odour, peculiar and penetrating,
seemed to come from her. I had never known it
before, but Bill stopped rowing at once and turned
toward her.
“Niggers,” said he, spitting in disgust.
“Aboard of her?” I asked.
“Not youst now, maybe, but she’s been full of
niggers more’n once. There’s youst a smell left
behind, and it never leaves.”
.bn 192.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XXI. | THE STRANGE BRIG
.sp 2
We reached the brig’s side, and a surly voice
hailed us. “Whatcher want?” it said, in the deep
baritone of the typical Yankee bos’n.
“Hoot, ye Yankee,” cried Martin, “we’ve come
visitin’, d’ye ken that? A-visitin’, an’, if ye be so
hospitable as ye have no reason t’ be, we’re dommed
welcome. If we ain’t, I’ll ask ye to show us cause
why, an’ maybe I ken prove ye’re wrong by the
strength o’ logic,” and he held up two brawny hands
like the paws of a tiger.
“Well, I don’t keer to have no drunken louts
aboard this here vessel,” said the fellow, leaning
over the rail so that I could get a glimpse of him.
“Ef yer got any money, sing out whatcher want.
This here’s a honest trading-brig, an’ kin give ye
all a good nip o’ prime American whiskey for a
mighty low price.”
The man was quite uncommon-looking. He must
have stood six feet six, and was as lean as a flagstaff.
.bn 193.png
.pn +1
His face was lined and burned, as though
used to a tropical sun, and his eyes were faded and
yellow.
“Ye be a rare raskil, an’ that’s a fact,” said Martin.
“Is there anything ye widna do for the coin?
Bide a bit, and let us coom aboard. ’Tis liquor I
crave for the sake of me system.”
We ran the dingey alongside and prepared to
mount the channels to the deck, but, on looking up,
we noticed the long man had not moved or spoken,
but had drawn forth a huge horse-pistol, which he
poked over the rail.
“Youst hold on a bit with that,” said Bill. “We
know you’re a trader all right by the smell o’ yer.
We ain’t no men-o’-war’s men, so what’s that got
to do with us?”
The tall man looked thoughtfully along the barrel
of the weapon, and then put it out of sight.
“Wall, come up, then, if ye know the smell so well.”
Thus invited, we quickly made our way aboard,
and lost no time in purchasing some of the “good
American whiskey,” which turned out to be the
worst stuff afloat.
All idea of changing ships left me as I stepped
on deck. She was without doubt a slaver, bound
out in the same rascally enterprise we were. But,
as she carried the American flag, she was free from
British men-of-war, and consequently less afraid
.bn 194.png
.pn +1
of detection. For, although slaving was now a
piracy, no British ship could take her without slaves
aboard, and there were only two or three small
American cruisers in the South Atlantic, and these
were too slow to capture a very fast ship. I wondered
why Hawkson allowed us aboard her, knowing
well that we were almost sure to tell of our
affairs. Then I remembered his request to note
her armament and crew.
The latter we found just below the hatches, all
armed to the teeth with pistols, cutlasses, and boarding-pikes,
awaiting the word of their captain to
spring on deck and defend their ship should occasion
arise. Our boat was a suspicious object that
the long skipper had been watching for some time,
and believed there was some game behind our innocent
call. The six little guns on each broadside
were all loaded, and we found that she would clear
just as soon as water could be brought aboard.
After the men--there were twenty-six in all--had
put aside their arms and received us as companions,
we had the usual sailors’ orgy before starting
back. Yarns were told, and, if ever there was
a crew of unhung rascals, these self-confessed villains
would have formed them.
Martin seemed pleased at last to find men who
stopped at nothing, and before he left was talking
piracy, and begging some of the hardiest to join
.bn 195.png
.pn +1
him. He was very drunk, however, and his railings
were counted as little, but I knew that he was
really speaking, as drunken men often do, from
their inmost hearts. One great hulking fellow,
with red whiskers, took a little with the scheme,
and another man, an Italian sailor, looked a bit
queer about the eyes when the Scot talked of gold.
The long skipper heard nothing of their ravings,
for, after allowing us aboard the vessel, he retired
to the cabin, where his mates were waiting to see
the outcome of the visit. When they saw we were
really only four able-bodied men of a strange barque,
their interest appeared to fade away entirely. We
finally shoved off, dizzy and sick with the poison
imbibed, myself thoroughly disgusted with the slaver’s
crew, and Martin and Ernest inviting them to
a meeting ashore.
Hawkson took me aside when we returned, and
asked a few questions. My disgust for my countrymen
was too apparent not to be noticed, and the
mate evidently thought it safe to trust me now anywhere,
for I was allowed ashore again that evening.
Our liberty crews were unique and grotesque.
There was little care for desertion, evidently on
account of Henry’s ability to get the deserters without
trouble from any island where access to the
mainland could only be had by some large vessel
that could be easily seen. And, as we were mongrel
.bn 196.png
.pn +1
in the extreme, there was much to be expected from
mixture.
Bill declared he should get very drunk at once
on the wine he had heard so much about but never
had tasted, and Martin declared he would do anything
a true Christian sailor might be expected to
do. His chum, Anderson, was surly and fierce, on
account of his recent ill-treatment aboard, and talked
openly of killing any one of our officers he might
meet on the beach. Watkins had gone in the captain’s
gig to attend to getting fresh provisions for
the after-guard, and the black Doctor came with
us, for it was to be our last run ashore, as we would
clear at once. The signal had been set and a gun
fired for the crew on the Desertas, and all was ready
again for our voyage. The goats’ and hogs’ meat
would be ready to be pickled, and would be stowed
at sea.
We landed on the beach, and a crowd of the
strangely dressed natives offered to pilot us around
to see the town of Funchal. The men wore tight
knee-breeches, and their thin, bare legs sticking out
of enormous boots looked remarkably queer. A
pair of them insisted on joining us, in spite of Martin’s
threat and the Doctor’s pugnacity, and, after
a scuffle or two, we let them lead the way to town.
Our other boats had rowed up.
Hawkson had detained only Jorg and a couple
.bn 197.png
.pn +1
of Swedes aboard, and I wondered vaguely if it
were well to be so short-handed should a British
man-of-war rise above the horizon. I did not know
whether or not we could be taken, for, although
English built, we were evidently under Yankee
Dan’s charter. Still there must certainly be considerable
treasure aboard, in order to do the trading,
and, if searched and captured, there was a strong
probability of losing it.
We finally reached the sailors’ harbour, that is,
a wine-shop, and because I had not forgotten the
effects of the last carouse I had in Nassau, I refused
to drink. The swinish crew insisted, and the Doctor
wished to know why I would not drink with
him.
“Disha nigger’s as good as any white man, an’,
if I am a slave, I belong to er man wat’s er m-a-an,
an’ he’s done quit drinkin’ milk. I never did think
much of you nohow, an’ I kin lick yo’ fur tuppence,
dat I kin,” said he, advancing and showing his ugly,
sharp teeth.
There was no earthly use of starting a fight, and
there was little glory in handling a man who was
bound by law to submit to the white man’s will.
I therefore left the crowd and went alone through
the town, hoping to see something besides debauch.
I strolled through the quaint streets, attracting
more or less attention, and somehow I found myself
.bn 198.png
.pn +1
straying in the direction of the inn where Yankee
Dan and his daughter were staying. Then I began
to feel a bit ashamed of my appearance, for, although
I rated a gunner, and therefore a petty
officer, I was dressed but little better than an average
sailor, and my linen, though put on fresh for the
beach, was not what I wished it to be. I soon recognized
the place, and looked to see Mr. Curtis
around, but he was evidently with the captain and
Dan, making a settlement for the spars we had
shipped, and fixing the barque’s papers.
I caught sight of the flutter of a dress on the
broad loggia, and then saw Miss Allen sitting there
in the breeze. An unaccountable impulse made me
stop and head directly toward her, for she was the
only thing that relieved the coarseness and roughness
of the life I had led aboard the barque.
“Good evening, Miss Allen,” I said, stopping
just in front of her.
“Good evening, John,” she answered, kindly,
as if addressing an old servant, and she smiled and
laid aside her book.
The tone disturbed me. Had she shown any
interest besides that for a hopelessly familiar chat
from a superior point of view, I might have passed
on and nothing would have happened. As it was,
my spirit rose a bit.
“I am as well as any man can be who is fastened
.bn 199.png
.pn +1
to a ship he would like to get clear of,” said I, and
walked boldly upon the porch where she sat.
“I wonder you can get along anywhere with
your amazing impudence,” she answered. “Can you
tell me what you would have me do to alleviate
your suffering? If papa saw you here talking to
me like this, I think you would even care less for
a voyage with him in The Gentle Hand.”
“Hang your--I was about to say your father,”
I answered, “but as this fate is liable to overtake
all the men concerned, it would be unwise to tempt
Providence. I didn’t come here, however, to carry
tales to his daughter.”
“Will you kindly state just what brought you,
then? You are an American, John, and I’m interested
in you to that extent.”
“That is most kind,” I answered, “and I will
make it perfectly plain before I leave.” Here I drew
up a chair, and sat quietly down at a respectful distance.
Her eyebrows raised a trifle at this action,
and her smile hardened a bit, but I was aroused
now and I paid no further attention to mere details.
.bn 200.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XXII. | “STAND TO IT!”
.sp 2
“I suppose,” I said, “that you believe me suffering
from sconce swellus.”
“It must be an extraordinary disorder for a
sailor,” she answered.
“Translated into nautical language, it means
swelling of the frontal bone, producing an ecstatic
degree of self-complacency in a hitherto irresponsible
mind,” said I, “and it is more often found to
exist among young persons, much younger even
than I am. I wished to say that my exalted rank
on the barque was not such as to produce the disease.”
“I see,” said Miss Allen, raising her eyebrows
slightly.
“In that case, I’ll proceed to tell you that slaving
is not my chosen vocation, and, if you are unfortunate
enough to marry Mr. Curtis, and thus control
the sinews of the enterprise, I would like to have
the crew diminished by one or two hands, beginning
with me.”
.bn 201.png
.pn +1
“Did it ever occur to you that the captain might
be the person to whom you should make the request,”
she answered, smiling a little.
“It did occur to me that he might be the one,
but, on considering his peculiar and hasty actions,
it occurred later to me that he might not.”
“Well, if you intend to wait until the misfortune
overtakes me that you suggest, I’m afraid
there is little use of your sublime impudence.”
“If that is really true,” said I, without hardly
knowing what I was saying, “I will be content
to be slaver, or even pirate, for that matter. If you
really don’t intend to--”
“That will do, sir! Be still!” she cried, now
aroused. Then she arose from her chair, and, looking
like an angry goddess, turned about to face
Mr. Curtis, who had stepped out of the house, and
who had evidently lost very little of the last part
of our conversation.
“Good evening, Miss Allen,” said he. “When
you get through talking to that sailor about your
private affairs, we might take a little stroll before
dark.”
“I hardly feel it necessary under the circumstances,”
said the girl.
“You might later on,” said he. His voice was
cold, but his eyes held smouldering fires that flashed
ominously.
.bn 202.png
.pn +1
“Is that a threat?” said she, haughtily, as steps
sounded on the gravel walk around the corner of
the house.
“No fear,” I snapped out without thinking, and,
as I did so, Hicks and Captain Howard swung
around the corner and were alongside.
The old pirate stopped and looked at me a moment.
“What’s this fellow doing here?” he asked,
noting my attitude, which was not of respect to
Mr. Curtis.
“I don’t know,” said he; “but if you will kindly
lend me your cutlass, I’ll see if he has blood in him.”
The old fellow instantly drew forth the hanger
he always carried whenever going ashore, and
passed the hilt to Mr. Curtis. Hicks stood near,
smiling contemptuously.
The affair began to have a serious look. I could
hardly run with honour, and Miss Allen would
sooner have cut off her right hand than ask him to
withhold the blade.
“Sir John,” she cried, turning to Hicks, “if that
man is harmed, you will live to be sorry for it.
Heywood,” she said, turning to me, “go about your
business.”
“Not while he has that weapon in his hand,”
said I, “but if he will lay it aside, and step down
on the beach here--” Here he made a pass that
would have given me a bad stab had not Hicks
.bn 203.png
.pn +1
knocked the thrust aside with his heavy walking-stick,
which he now held before him like a sword.
Like a flash, Curtis turned upon him. The cutlass
rose and fell like rapid flashes of lightning in
the gathering darkness, but each stroke found the
thick cane in its path, and Hicks remained unhurt.
Howard burst into a loud guffaw. “Go it, bullies!”
he cried. “Poke him in the ribs, Curtis!
Whang him on the knuckles, Hicks! Stand to it!
Stand to it! No flinching!”
Yankee Dan’s daughter stood upon the porch,
her hands clenched, and her breast heaving with
excitement. “Stop them! Oh, do stop them, Heywood,”
she gasped.
“If he does, I’ll stuff his hide for a figurehead,”
cried Howard, sitting down to fully enjoy the scene.
“Any one who stops such pretty play, my dear
child, will surely learn trouble. Look at that, an’
that!”
Curtis had forced his adversary backward into
the road, and several persons came running to see
the scuffle. One of these had recklessly tried to
seize the cutlass, and had received a couple of good
slashes with the blade. The fellow screamed with
pain. I started forward, but was instantly ordered
back by Captain Howard.
The slight diversion gave Hicks a chance to recover
himself from the suddenness of the attack,
.bn 204.png
.pn +1
and land a blow upon Curtis’s knuckles, which
caused him to drop his weapon. Then, in spite of
Howard’s threats and the struggles of the combatants,
they were separated just as Yankee Dan and
the main official of the town appeared at the door
of the inn, followed by a crowd of servants and
sightseers.
“It’s a shame your men interfere with such
sport,” said Captain Howard. “It’s an outrage,
sir.”
Yankee Dan had evidently settled for the repairs
on the barque, and the officer’s good-will was not
held so high as formerly.
“Are you addressing me, sir?” asked the officer.
“I am, sir, I am. It’s a d----d outrage the way
you allow these rogues to interfere with gentlemen.
You owe me an apology for spoiling that sport.”
“You’ll get something entirely different if you
entertain any such peculiar ideas regarding sport,”
said the official.
“Tut, tut, stow the row!” said Yankee Dan.
“Come inside, Rose,” he continued to his daughter,
and she followed him out of sight.
Hicks came up at that moment and strode through
the staring group, and I thought it about time to
depart.
Curtis had disappeared, and a fellow handed Captain
Howard his cutlass. The old sailor’s face remained
.bn 205.png
.pn +1
as unmarked by passion as a piece of iron,
while he called the official names that would have
made a dog wince, and he thrust his cutlass back in
its scabbard with easy carelessness. Then he called
for something to drink, and seated himself comfortably
again to enjoy it. I slipped off down the
road, and he evidently forgot all about the incident
and the part I took in it before I was out of sight.
As I reached the landing, where we had left the
small boat, I noticed the big man, the skipper of
the Yankee trader, directing two of his crew to
lift a large box. He apparently did not see me
in the gloom of the evening, for it was now getting
quite dark, and he ordered his men about in rough
tones.
“You, Sile, fling your end aboard, and don’t get
them slops wet, whatever you do. That Cap’n
Howard don’t want no wet slops a-comin’ aboard
his ship. Says he’s paid nine shillin’ sixpence fer
them jumpers wot’ll sell fer five shillin’ anywhere
outside London docks.”
I approached and stood by, looking on. Suddenly
he noticed me.
“Hello, mate,” said he, “be ye a-goin’ aboard
yer ship?”
There seemed little use staying ashore.
“Yes, I reckon I will when I get a boat,” I answered.
.bn 206.png
.pn +1
“Well, hop right in there. I’ve got a bit o’ goods
fer yer cap’n, and so long as I’ve got tew take ’em
aboard, I’ll take ye along with ’em.”
I stepped into the boat, and was followed by four
surly cutthroats, who sullenly took up the oars.
The captain followed.
“Shove off!” he growled, and the men sent her
clear. Then two natives appeared and clamoured
for some payment, following the boat into the water.
“Get clear, you Guineas!” growled the tall man,
giving one a rap over the head with the boat-hook,
and the other a sharp crack on the knuckles, where
he held the gunwale. This caused them to let go
and retreat to the beach, spluttering a string of
strange oaths, which the men heeded not the least,
but let fall their oars, and in a moment had the boat
heading out in the roadstead in the direction of
The Gentle Hand.
“I s’pose you uns ain’t goin’ out fer a day or
two yet?” said the tall skipper, after he had seated
himself in the stern-sheets.
“I believe we’ll clear to-morrow,” I answered.
“Our crew out on the Desertas must have bucanned
enough goat to last half the tribes of the Senegal
six months.”
“This feeding them blamed niggers is the very
devil,” said he, seeming to be remarkably communicative
for a captain who was talking to a strange
.bn 207.png
.pn +1
sailor. “Them coons has ter be kept fat. Just
as soon as they begin to pine, they goes almighty
fast. Now there’s ole Zack Richards, who’s too
mean to lay out anything except boiled rice. Why,
he left a trail o’ dead men clean acrost to Cuba,
an’ there warn’t an hour between bodies a-followin’
in his wake. You say you’re well heeled with
grub?”
I told him everything was first-class aboard The
Gentle Hand.
“Got plenty o’ rocks, hey? Plenty o’ real money
ter back the game, hey? I s’pose they keeps a safe
aboard, with iron doors an’ regular money lock,
under the cabin. Never seen the cash outfit, hey?”
“No,” said I; “I’m only the gunner aboard,
although I shipped as mate. I never got a chance
to see what’s aft.”
“You’re most uncommon clever for a gunner,
sink me! but I took ye for first officer, at least.
’Course you’ve been mate an’ master, too, for that
matter. I c’u’d see that easy. I was just a-tellin’
Sile, when you came over to-day, what a crackin’
mate they had on that barque.” Here he looked
hard at the surly man with the stroke oar, who
nodded and spat abundantly over the side to emphasize
his corroboration.
“Must be somethin’ of a wessel when she has
fellers like you below mate’s ratin’. She is a good-lookin’
.bn 208.png
.pn +1
barque, but I reckon she’s pretty old. We’ll
swing up on the port quarter best, and you can hail
the deck. Tell ’em here’s a chest o’ slops fer Captain
Howard wot goes in his cabin. He sent ’em
off in this boat, an’ I won’t charge him nuthin’ fer
freight.”
I bawled for a line, and Hawkson’s head appeared
over the taffrail.
“Here’s a chest for the captain,” I said, “it
has--”
“It goes in his cabin,” said the long man, interrupting.
“Them’s his instructions.”
“What’s in it?” asked Hawkson.
“Just common slops,” said the long skipper,
“though he’s paid a shillin’ or two more’n them
cheap goods is worth. As fer me, I wouldn’t vally
the whole contents o’ that chest ekal to the powder
an’ lead to blow ’em ter Davy Jones,--an’ I don’t
mind sayin’ it loud enough to be heard. He’s got
a lock on it big an’ strong enough ter hold solid
gold, an’ he’s kept the key. Pass a line an’ we’ll
heave it up. I must be goin’. Reckon I’ll clear in
a couple of hours.”
A couple of men dropped a line, which was quickly
bent to one of the handles of the chest, and in a
few moments it was aboard the barque. The small
boat hung alongside for some minutes, while the
long skipper swore and cursed at Sile for not having
.bn 209.png
.pn +1
been more careful about the barque’s paint, as
the chest scratched it a little. Then, hearing the
men carrying the affair below, he waved his cigar,
which shone in the darkness, and shoved off.
.bn 210.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XXIII. | WHAT THE CAPTAIN’S CHEST HELD
.sp 2
“You may lower down that signal, Haywood,”
said Hawkson, after I had watched the long skipper
disappear in the darkness.
Glancing aloft, it was too dark to see what signal
he meant, so I hesitated, knowing all our bunting
was generally hauled down at sunset.
“That pennant flying from the gaff,” said Hawkson,
noting my slowness. “That’s been flying all
afternoon for Mr. Gull on the Desertas. Signal
agreed on to call him in. We’re bound out to-morrow,
but didn’t have to tell the whole island about
it.”
I went to the spanker-boom and sought the signal
halyard. Then I hauled down the pennant,
which I remembered noting during the day, but
gave no particular thought. Rolling it up, I started
forward to turn in when Hawkson stopped me.
“I wish you would keep a lookout aft there,”
said he, “I’m going below and turn in a bit, and
.bn 211.png
.pn +1
I want to be called when the old man comes aboard.
Get your supper from Heligoland, and then lay aft
until the gig comes alongside.”
On reaching the forecastle, I noticed Heligoland
eye me sharply, then he brought forth a piece of
paper folded squarely and sealed on the corners
in very fine style.
I wondered at this, for I had not received a note
from any one for a long time. Looking askance at
the Norwegian, I slowly tore it open, and spread
it forth under the forecastle lamp. At first I could
make little out of it, for it was a scrawl and somewhat
blotted. Then I finally made out the name
Richards at the bottom of it, and started in to read
it afresh.
.pm start_quote
“My dear friend Heywood,” it went, “when
you get this note, I will be off the ship. There
won’t be any use looking for me until I choose to
turn up, but you will see me again before long. I
wanted you to go with me, but it couldn’t be fixed.
If you take care not to get killed, maybe I can help
you live a bit longer.
.ll 68
.rj
Peter Richards.”
.ll
.pm end_quote
The letter was somewhat ambiguous, but Richards
was something of a scholar, having been a mate
and an officer on a man-of-war, so I thought that
it was perhaps simply a way he had of saying good-bye.
.bn 212.png
.pn +1
I knew he intended to jump the ship, and supposed,
of course, he would not think of such a thing
without taking me in his confidence. Here he had
gone, and he made no excuse, save that it could
not be fixed. I swore at him for fully a minute,
and then Heligoland asked what it was. As he
could not read any language, let alone English, it
was safe to tell him the first thing that happened
not to bear in any way upon the case. He seemed
satisfied.
At eight bells I had eaten a bad meal cooked by
the Norwegian sailor left in charge, and betook
myself aft to the quarter-deck. The night was quite
dark, and the lights on the shore twinkled brightly,
sending their reflection streaming seaward over the
oily swell that rolled in gently upon the sand.
There was little wind, barely enough to feel, and
I lounged over the taffrail until I found myself
dozing.
It was close to two bells when I was roused by
a peculiar sound in the lazarette beneath me. There
was a noise as of some one sawing gently, and this
was followed by a scraping like that caused by
dragging something heavy across the deck.
While I rested half upon the rail, with my eyes
fixed upon the lazarette hatch, I became aware of
the sound of voices in the water astern, coming
from seaward. Soon I distinguished the gentle
.bn 213.png
.pn +1
rippling of water from a boat’s stem, and heard
Mr. Gull’s voice tell his men to take in their sail.
“Don’t seem to be any one on deck,” he growled,
surlily, as the boat came under the counter directly
beneath me.
“Give me your painter,” I said, quietly, reaching
over for it, and then, as it was tossed up, taking
it forward to the mizzen lanyards, where I proceeded
to make it fast.
While doing this, I became aware of two men
standing on the taffrail, carrying a heavy chest,
which they were balancing upon the rail while bending
on a line to it. At first I thought they were
from the boat alongside, but instantly remembered
the height of our quarter above the rail of the small
boat, and knew no one could have climbed up so
quickly.
“Stand from under,” growled one, whose voice
sounded very like that of the red-headed villain
Martin had taken into his drunken confidence aboard
the brig. Then the chest disappeared over the rail,
and the other man quickly caught a turn with the
line about a belaying-pin, to ease it off. I was now
close beside them, and had no difficulty in recognizing
the silent one as the Guinea we had met in the
brig that morning.
“Over with you!” growled the fellow who had
first spoken. “Don’t be all night about letting that
.bn 214.png
.pn +1
go,” and, suiting his action to his words, he sprang
upon the rail and dropped over.
“What the blazes is this?” roared Mr. Gull from
below, as the chest landed in his boat.
The fellow saw me as he slipped over the rail,
and flung his knife at my face, the blade just grazing
my cheek. Before I could recover myself, both
the men had cleared the side and had dropped below.
I rushed to the rail and peered over. Below there
were fierce oaths and the sound of a desperate struggle,
and in an instant several voices roared out for
the watch on deck. Mr. Gull could be heard and
dimly seen cursing and grappling with a man who
strove to get over the boat’s stern into the water,
while a black mass of men struggled in the boat’s
bottom, yelling and cursing wildly in a strenuous
combat.
The sudden uproar aroused Hawkson, who came
bounding up the companion, with a cutlass in one
hand and pistol in the other.
“What’s the row?” he bawled, making to the
side.
“You may search me,” I answered. “Looks
like a lot of lunatics below there.”
“Shore grog, I reckon. I’ll string that Martin
up for this, an’ give Jones a dozen--Break away
there, you blackguards, an’ come aboard, or I’ll fire
into ye,” he bellowed, levelling his pistol.
.bn 215.png
.pn +1
“Hold on!” I cried. “It’s Mr. Gull and his
men.”
“Mr.--what?” he asked, peering over. “Sink
me, if it ain’t! What’s the matter below there?
D’ye want any help?”
At that moment a shadow shot out of the gloom,
and we saw a boat swing quickly alongside of the
one already fast to us.
“Now, then, cut loose there,” drawled the voice
of the long skipper, and instantly the blackness was
streaked with flashes, as the weapons rang out.
Then some of our men began clambering aboard
by the painter in the mizzen, while Hawkson roared
and fired his pistol at the new boat.
Bawling for men to follow, we slid down the
lines still trailing over the stern, but, before we
could reach the boat beneath, it was pulled from
under us, and then we were left hanging over the
black water. By the time Hawkson and I climbed
back on deck, the scuffle below had ceased, and the
long skipper was bawling out a hoarse farewell
from the darkness seaward, and being answered by
Mr. Gull from his boat in fitting terms.
When lanterns were brought out, it was seen that
several of our men were seriously hurt, and lay
upon the pile of provisions in the boat. The chest
had disappeared, and was evidently in the possession
of the skipper of the Yankee brig. At this,
.bn 216.png
.pn +1
Hawkson plunged below, and came up a few minutes
later with the news that the barque’s treasure-chest
was missing, and that she must consequently be
made ready for sea at once.
The affair was now perfectly plain. Our men
were nearly all ashore, and it was impossible to get
them before morning. The long skipper had put
a couple of men in the chest, sent them aboard, and
they had worked the treasure-chest on deck, mistaking
Mr. Gull’s boat for their own, which they had
evidently arranged to have on hand at the appointed
time. But for the last part of the game, everything
would have gone quietly. The empty slop-chest,
with its large lock, was the only evidence, besides
some wounded men, to show that we had been
boarded and robbed in the most approved pirate
fashion.
We stood about, gazing at the empty chest with
its lock, which was put on to guard against inquisitive
persons opening it before the men within desired
to come out. Forgetting entirely that we were
within the sacred precincts of the captain’s cabin,
Hawkson stood gazing at the affair lying open
before him, swearing at the tricky skipper who had
so easily hoodwinked him, and apparently lost as
to the best method of regaining the chest.
Suddenly the sound of voices came down the
companion, and the noise of a boat bumping alongside.
.bn 217.png
.pn +1
He sprang to the poop, cutlass in hand, ready-to
repel boarders, and the rest followed in his wake,
all armed now and in a temper for business.
We arrived just in time to meet Captain Howard
and Hicks, who climbed up the ladder to starboard,
and were on their way aft followed by Watkins,
the steward.
Mr. Gull had already started to explain matters,
and tell how he had been overpowered, but our
formidable appearance caused the old fellow to
draw his cutlass and stand on guard.
“What’s this mean? D’ye dare mutiny?” he
roared, and it was some moments before Hawkson
could explain that mutiny was our last thought,
but that our principal desire was to meet the long
trader and his crew. I was afraid I would suffer
from suspicion in the affair, but Mr. Gull told how
he sent me forward with his painter to make it fast
in the mizzen, and nothing was said to me about
the matter.
“Allen carried most of the specie ashore the day
after we came in,” I heard Hicks say to Mr. Gull.
“There was nothing of any value in that chest,
but, as it’ll be dead calm all night, we’ll have a
try at him to-morrow if he’s in sight. He won’t
get far, and, if we only had all hands here, we could
board him where he lays.”
Howard, after seeing that everything was all
.bn 218.png
.pn +1
right aboard, and that Mr. Gull had brought a ton
or more of goat meat, went below, while we rove
a tackle and unloaded the stuff on deck, the men
hurt in the fracas being allowed to turn in.
It was nearly midnight before the rest of us went
into the forecastle, which now somewhat resembled
a hospital, and I stretched out in my pew, wondering
what would become of Mr. Curtis and Miss
Allen if the barque sailed in the morning with our
trader aboard.
.bn 219.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XXIV. | THE CAPTAIN SHOWS HIS METTLE
.sp 2
Before the light of the early morning filtered
below, we were aroused by the entrance of the liberty
crew.
“Youst look at the mess,” cried Bill, staggering
down the companion. “Jump below, friend Martin,
an’ see the horsepittle they’ve made in this fo’c’sle.”
“Hoot, ye Scandinavian imp, is any one hurt?
Mark ye, if there’s any fighting to be done, I’ll do
it! Ye ken that? I’ll do it. I’ll do it.” And he
followed Bill below, and after him trooped Big
Jones, Ernest, and the rest. There was noise enough
when we told our yarn of the evening before, and
all except Anderson took a peep from the hatch
seaward to try and raise the brig, which had cleared
during the night. She was out of sight, however,
and they came swarming below again, where the
surly Swede was thanking the fates the barque had
been robbed, and only mourned because none of
her officers were killed or wounded.
.bn 220.png
.pn +1
Jennings and Jorg, the Finn, were about the only
men who had received no hurt from the fracas, except
myself. Even Heligoland had received a bad
scratch from a stray bullet, and all of Gull’s crew
were more or less bruised and banged about by the
villains. One of the boat’s crew took a crack over
the head that had put him out for many minutes,
and another a stab from a knife that rendered his
hand useless for the time being. Owing to the darkness,
no one had received a bullet from the long
skipper’s fire.
Before we had time to speculate upon what we
would do, Hawkson’s voice bawled out for all hands,
and Henry appeared at the hatch.
We turned out and saw smoke flying from the
galley-pipe, and heard the voice of the Doctor singing
off the effects of shore grog while he hustled
the breakfast. In a few minutes we had eaten, and
were manning the windlass to heave short.
There was a gentle breeze blowing, and the topsails
were loosened, the canvas falling from the
yards and hanging hauled up at the clews, ready to
sheet home at the word. Far away seaward, the
Desertas--the barren rocks infested only by wild
goats--stood out sharply against the southern sky.
Nothing white like a royal, however, broke the line
of blue, and it was evident that our friend, the brig,
had made a good offing during the night, in spite
.bn 221.png
.pn +1
of the lack of wind. While Jim and Tom, our two
Liverpool cockneys, squeaked out a song, to which
Gus and Ernest added their guttural grunts, the
starboard watch hove on the windlass brakes, and
began to take the slack out of our cable. Before
we had taken twenty feet, however, we noticed a
boat coming from the shore, and soon recognized
Yankee Dan, the trader. In a few minutes he was
alongside bawling for Captain Howard. Then he
climbed over the side, and, without stopping to pay
his fare, started aft.
“It’s a nice mess he’s made ashore,” he said, as
Hawkson appeared on the poop. “Don’t he know
he’ll have to fight? What’s he afraid of, anyway?”
“Who?” asked the mate.
“The old man, of course. Who else? Hasn’t
he insulted that Guinea officer ashore there? Don’t
he know he’s playing mighty strange, not showin’
up when time’s called? Where is he?”
“Below,” said Hawkson, “but he’ll be on deck
if he hears you, fast enough. What’s the trouble?”
I had reached the starboard quarter gun by this
time, and saw a smooth poll, like the knob of a door,
poked up the companion.
“Who’s making that racket?” growled a voice,
and Howard’s face appeared over the coamings.
“Ain’t you goin’ to meet your man?” bawled the
trader.
.bn 222.png
.pn +1
“What man, you nigger-thief?” growled Howard.
“I’ll settle with you afterward,” said the trader,
coming close to him. “You better attend to one
quarrel at a time. Are you goin’ to fight or not?
You know the man well enough, the officer you
insulted yesterday.”
“Where is he?” growled the old villain.
“On the beach, waitin’ for you. Are ye blind?”
“That’ll do the anchor. Get the small boat
ready,” said he to the mate. “I reckon we’ll wait
a bit and see what’s up ashore.”
In a moment after, he had disappeared down the
companion. Howard came stiffly on deck again,
buckling on a cutlass. His face expressed nothing,
and, as he went toward the gangway, he called for
his steward to bring him a glass of grog. The
effect of this was instantaneous.
He limbered up, and, as Holmberg, Bill, and
myself brought the boat to the steps, he was pacing
fore and aft, cursing at our delay.
“I’ll have my breakfast when I come back,” he
growled to Watkins. “No fear, I’ll take the stiffness
out of somebody.”
Then he climbed down the side ladder and sprang
into the boat, followed by Yankee Dan.
“Shove off!” he growled. Then he turned to
the trader. “Where’s this fracas to be, and what’s
.bn 223.png
.pn +1
it about? What am I fighting for, you nigger-thief?”
And he broke into a high, cackling laugh,
while his face hardly changed in expression, his
fishy eyes roving in their gaze toward the beach.
We gave way with a will, and were out of hailing
distance of the barque before Hicks appeared
on deck. I could see him waving, but, as the captain
sat with his back facing aft steering, I thought
it was little use to call his attention to the matter.
We were heading, under the trader’s guidance,
to a spot on the shore out of sight of the town, and
in a little cove where there was no surf from the
heave of the swell. Here the craft was beached,
and we sprang out to drag her up. Then the trader
and our skipper stepped ashore. Out from a thicket
of laurel sprang a trio of men, all wearing the Portuguese
uniform, and then I recognized one of them
as the dago officer who had been talking to the
trader the evening before, and whom our old captain
had cursed so villainously. Under the arm
of a younger man was a bunch of swords, such as
were used at the time for fencing in the army,--little
long, thin blades of the rapier pattern, and
sharp as needles.
“Sorry to have kept you folks waitin’ so long,”
said Yankee Dan, “but the old man had overslept
himself. I reckon he’ll fight fast enough. We’re
ready when you say the word.”
.bn 224.png
.pn +1
The younger officer passed him the hilts of a
couple of rapiers, and politely begged that he try
their temper and make a choice.
While he did so, our old skipper tossed aside his
coat, and stood forth in a none too clean shirt and
flowing trousers, held up by a broad leathern sword-belt.
This he began to unbuckle unconcernedly,
and, as he finished, he wrapped it around the scabbard
of his hanger and drew forth the blade.
“I haven’t much time to waste on these Guineas,”
said he, breaking into a sudden cackling laugh which
ended abruptly. His face wore the same mahogany
mask-like look it always presented, and his eyes
were lustreless and fixed as those of a dead mackerel.
“If there’s any game goin’, let it start, for
we’ve a job in the offing to attend to.”
“Here,” said the trader, presenting him the hilt
of a rapier he had chosen, “drop that meat-axe
and bear a hand. We’ll settle our little affair
later.”
“I’ll settle you, if you don’t sheer off,” growled
Howard. “If the dago wants to fence, let him
come in. This is the sword for me, and, if he’s
finky about it, I’ll chase him clean up his chimney
before he’ll get clear of it.”
Yankee Dan threw down his sword in disgust.
“Don’t let him worry on my account,” said the
officer, in good English. “Let him keep whatever
.bn 225.png
.pn +1
weapon he chooses. Perhaps he would like to have
a pistol also.”
It seemed strange that the officer, who was a
high official not far below the governor himself,
should want to fight a duel with a man like Howard.
He evidently intended to kill him, for he
took no pains to hinder his clearing with his ship,
and appeared eager to come to a personal settlement.
A line was drawn across the sand, and the two
combatants advanced to it, the officer not above
middle age and graceful, his sword held in proper
manner before him and his feet set at the right
distance apart, while his left hand he held poised
at a level with his shoulder in the rear.
Howard grasped his scabbard in his left hand,
with its belt wrapped about it, and, holding it high
above him, advanced his cutlass’s point, and proceeded
to work with no more concern than if he
were prodding a lazy sailor.
The sun had risen, and the sea was a beautiful
blue offshore, the gentle rippling along the beach
sounding musically. The breeze just rustled the
foliage overhead, and made a low, continuous clicking
which blended with the sound of the steel. The
air was warm, but fresh with the odour of the sea,
and the two men facing each other felt its bracing
influences, for they were hard at it in an instant,
.bn 226.png
.pn +1
the old skipper breaking forth into a high, cackling
laugh, as he swung his weapon with marvellous
quickness. It was evidently great sport for him,
and he was enjoying it.
The dago’s glinting black eyes shone fiercely as
he thrust and lunged, with the black lust of murder
in his heart, determined to rid the world of a villain.
He was an expert swordsman, and accounted Howard
a dead rascal. But the ways of Providence
are strange. It won’t do to trust that the wicked
will be punished and the good go unscathed. The
ways of the Almighty Power are inscrutable, and
to dictate a policy against crime, with oneself as
the avenger, is a dangerous undertaking. The Almighty
has a way of his own for dealing with all
things, and the fallible human being is not consulted
with a view to proving who or which is
best.
The very confidence of the officer made me nervous.
His fierce smile seemed to hold contempt and
disdain for his antagonist, who, with his old scabbard
held high in rear, ambled about the sandy shore
like some old reptile, the perspiration starting out
on the top of his bald poll and running down his
expressionless face in little streams.
Once he was pricked sorely in the side, but the
old fellow only laughed in his high, cackling voice,
and swung his cutlass with renewed vigour.
.bn 227.png
.pn +1
Four, five, ten minutes passed, and the conflict
waxed hotter and the men began to breathe heavily.
The officer’s face was pale and calm with a fixed
resolution. His breath came in sharp, rasping jerks,
but his eye was bright and watchful, and he was
much lighter and quicker on his feet.
Suddenly he lunged out and pressed the old man
fiercely. Howard’s scabbard sank lower and lower
behind him until he let it trail upon the ground.
He was getting tired, though his face showed nothing.
The officer stabbed him badly in the arm,
and there was a look in his eyes that told of the
finish. With a movement quick as lightning, the
sailor transferred his sword to his left hand, and
came on with his fresh wrist, working with the
precision of the trained fencer.
Then the old man stopped, stepped back a pace,
evidently thoroughly blown with the exertion. It
looked like the end now, and I began to feel sorry
for him, standing there to be spitted by the implacable
dago.
“To the death,” hissed the officer in good English,
and lunged out with a vigour that seemed to defy
a parry.
It seemed to me his sword must go half a fathom
beyond the old man’s body, and I gave a little exclamation
of sympathy. Then something strange
happened. Howard dropped his point and jerked
.bn 228.png
.pn +1
his sword backward. It sheered off the thrust to
starboard, and, before the officer could recover, the
cutlass rose and fell like a flash in the sunshine.
The blade landed fairly on his antagonist’s head,
and down he went on the sand like a poleaxed
bullock, while Howard broke forth into his cackling
laugh, and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. Then
he turned and strode toward the boat, where Bill
held his coat and hat. The rest crowded around
the wounded man, and cried out in excited tones.
“Shove her off,” growled our captain; “he isn’t
hurt much, but it’s too hot for this kind of play.
He, he, he! I’d a good notion to break his head,
Dan, he looked so wicked, hey! ’Twouldn’t do to
hurt one of those fellows if we want to come again.
He’ll be all right in a week. Hi, hi, hi! but he
hated me right fairly, hey?”
“I’ll call it quits,” said Yankee Dan, smiling,
as he climbed aboard. We shoved off, and were
soon on our way to The Gentle Hand.
As we sent the craft sheering through the clear
water, I had a chance to look shoreward, for I
faced aft with the stroke oar. Upon the yellow
sand several forms now moved in a body, and, as
they opened a bit, I saw the wounded officer walking
away leaning upon the arm of his young comrade.
“Hi, hi, hi!” cackled Howard, “what an appetite
.bn 229.png
.pn +1
a little play gives one, hey? Would you like
to try your hand, you man-eater, to-morrow?”
“I’m no butcher; the pistol is good enough for
me,” said Yankee Dan.
.bn 230.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XXV. | WE HEAR OF LONG TOM
.sp 2
In less than half an hour we were back again
aboard, and as the trader clambered over the side,
he was greeted by his daughter. He was evidently
surprised, for he threw his head back until his beard,
sticking upward from his throat beneath his collar,
stood out straight in a most aggressive manner.
It evidently had its effect on the young lady’s spirits.
“You don’t seem overpleased to have me here
again,” she said before he had spoken.
Yankee Dan gave a loud grunt of protest.
“Are you going clear to the coast, and be aboard
when we take ’em on, hey?” said he, with a show
of sarcasm in his harsh voice.
“I’m going with you, and you may put me ashore
with Aunt Mary at St. Helena, or on board some
vessel bound for New York, so I can get to Uncle
Henry’s. I’m not going to stay ashore here,” she
answered.
.bn 231.png
.pn +1
Then the father turned away; the interview ended
as Hawkson came up.
Fearing trouble for the vessel in her dismasted
condition when she arrived, her treasure had been
removed ashore, so that in case some prying man-of-war
should happen to take charge on suspicion,
it would be safe. This alone saved the enterprise
from failure that morning, but, when the story of
the brig’s rascally skipper had been related to the
trader, he instantly started ashore with Mr. Gull
and a couple of men, to get the gold at once from
Mr. Curtis, in order that there might be no delay
in getting to sea and overhauling the brig, if only
to give him a lesson in trading etiquette. At this
time slave-traders were not overscrupulous in their
dealing, and among themselves were little better
than pirates, for they would seldom hesitate to
overhaul or rob each other, knowing that the slaver
robbed could get no redress without admitting guilt
of similar transactions.
By the time he returned, the barque was hove
short, and her sails ready to sheet home, and the
young lady, who had already gone below to her
cabin, was not given much thought by either her
father or the old skipper. As the boat drew up
alongside, I noticed Mr. Curtis aboard, but he took
no thought of me as he came on deck. In an instant
we had hooked the boat on and whisked her
.bn 232.png
.pn +1
on deck, and in less than five minutes we were starting
out to sea before a light westerly breeze that
sent us along about five knots.
I cleared the guns and loaded them all, and then
a man was sent aloft to keep a lookout for a sail,
which we all hoped might be the Yankee brig. We
were on our course for the African coast, but might
alter it if occasion offered.
The old barque sailed well with her new topmasts,
and, if anything, she showed a bit faster,
as her main was now a foot higher and her new-cut
topsail a little deeper. Much of her fine gear
was gone, but what we had purchased in Funchal
was of the best quality, and we had lines enough
to rig another ship. Altogether she made a good
showing, and even Mr. Gull’s crew, who had eaten
much goat meat, and in consequence were in prime
condition, were not sorry to get back aboard her.
All day we held to the southward over an almost
glassy ocean, ruffled here and there by the falling
breeze, and by sunset we were rewarded by Big
Jones’s yell from the foretop: “Sail dead ahead,
sir.”
We were going too slow to tell just what the
vessel might be before dark. Her royals were showing
white on the clear blue line, and the sun went
down before even her topsails rose above the horizon.
The white of her cloth, however, gave us
.bn 233.png
.pn +1
some hope, for Americans used white canvas, and
the brig could not be very far ahead of us, and undoubtedly
bound on the same course.
It was calm all night, but somehow the barque
slid along, and by daylight the fellow ahead could
be made out plainly not over three miles distant.
It was the brig, and the long skipper was evidently
not much disturbed at our approach, for he took
in his after stunsails and wallowed along slowly
over the smooth swell.
We were through breakfast before we knew anything
of Howard’s plans, although there had been
much speculation among the men forward, some,
who had suffered in the fracas the evening before,
being especially anxious to try conclusions with the
men who had inadvertently dropped the chest and
themselves on top of them and their goat meat in
the small boat.
Gus, a stout Swede, and Pat, a heavy-built little
Irishman, showed bandaged arms which they wished
avenged, and Jennings, a Dutchman, who was a
good sailor, poked his swathed head over the rail
and swore an unintelligible oath at the Yankee.
Hawkson stood upon the poop and watched the
brig steadily, until Hicks and Howard came from
below.
“Will he fight?” asked Hicks, coming to the old
mate’s side.
.bn 234.png
.pn +1
“Did you ever see a Yankee sailor that
wouldn’t?” said Hawkson. “No fear! You’ll
see all the fighting you want, if we come in range,--an’
we’re mighty near that now.”
“We’ll take him before eight bells,” said Howard,
without interest, as though it were a thing he
did every day. “Get the small arms ready, and
stand by.”
We were nearing the brig, although only going
about three knots an hour, and when within about
a mile of her, a puff of white flew from her starboard
quarter, and in a few moments later a six-pound
shot landed with a loud bang against our
side, and smashed through into the ’tween-decks,
drowning the faint boom of the gun with its slamming
around below.
“He, he, he!” laughed Howard, his ugly mouth
showing barely a trace of amusement. “He means
fight without any talk. That’s plain enough. Suppose
you pop him one or two, just to try the range.”
Hawkson stepped down on the main-deck and
went to a forward gun.
“Keep her off a couple of points,” he bawled
to Henry, and, as the barque yawed a little, he fired.
We watched to see the shot strike, and saw a
jet of water thrown against the brig’s side, telling
plainly that the ball had struck at or below the
water-line. Several men cheered, but behind me
.bn 235.png
.pn +1
I heard a fierce oath. Turning, I saw Martin glaring
savagely at Hawkson, while near him stood
Anderson with a scowl on his face. Even as I
looked in surprise, the wily Scot caught my eye,
and his look changed.
“’Tis a pity it didn’t hit him and cut his mast
out. Ye may ken it’s far better to knock out a
spar in a chase,” said he to me, in a low voice that
Hawkson could not hear. His tone was not natural,
however, and I wondered at him for some
time afterward, and thought of the possible ways
the long skipper could have heard of the barque’s
treasure-chest in the lazarette that he had run off
with so handily. We were soon busy firing the
guns of the port broadside as fast as we could serve
them at the enemy, now well within range.
Shot were striking the barque often, for the
Yankee was making excellent practice with his light
guns, but no one had been injured aboard. This
being cut up did not suit Howard. He valued the
old vessel too highly to have her hurt badly, and
knew also the difficulty of repairing old timbers.
“Let her head up half a point,” said he, and we
were soon dead astern of the brig and creeping up
toward her, our own guns unable to fire, and receiving
only the fire of one little six-pounder they
brought on the poop. This single gun made havoc
with our sails, hitting them time and again, and
.bn 236.png
.pn +1
tearing our outer jib so badly that it was useless.
We drew closer, and suddenly the Yankee ceased
firing. We were very close to him now, and the
long skipper could be easily seen leaning indolently
upon the poop-rail, watching us with apparent unconcern.
Hawkson took up a speaking-trumpet and bawled
out.
“Heave that vessel to, or we’ll sink you,” he
roared.
The long captain put his hand to his ear, as if
unable to understand, and the hail was repeated.
“I can’t heave her to,” drawled the fellow.
“There’s too many men aboard her, an’ they won’t
let me.”
Yankee Dan now came from below, where he
had taken his daughter for protection, and gazed
at the brig.
“It’s Long Tom Shannon,” said he, “and it
would have been a lot better if we hadn’t come up
with him. It’s strange you didn’t know him, the
worst rascal on the coast.”
.bn 237.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XXVI. | WE REPEL BOARDERS
.sp 2
There was no one in sight aboard the brig save
the skipper and the man at the wheel, but we knew
she had a full crew. The barque hauled up rapidly,
even while the mate and skipper spoke, and we
stood at the port guns, ready to let loose a broadside
that would finish our enemy.
“Hard aport,” came the order, and we expected
to swing quickly to starboard, and thus bring each
gun to bear at close range, our heavier battery of
twelve-pounders being sufficient to cripple any vessel
the size of the brig, who, with her little six-pounders,
could hardly hope for escape.
Some one, I think it must have been Martin, let
fly the jib-sheet as a little air filled it, and prevented
our paying off rapidly, and, as we went, we had the
satisfaction of seeing the brig port his helm also,
and swing up ahead of us, while he opened again
with his gun on the poop. Hawkson saw the mistake,
or trick, whichever it was, with the head-sheet,
.bn 238.png
.pn +1
and, roaring out orders to flatten it in, he sprang
down upon the main-deck, followed by Gull and
Henry, and rushed forward to the braces.
A shot from the brig’s six-pounder struck Pete,
a dago, and cut him almost in half, flinging him
bodily upon Anderson, both going into the starboard
scuppers in a heap. Then, before the long Yankee
captain realized what we were about, we had braced
sharp on the starboard tack forward, and he, thinking
we would haul up to bring our battery to bear,
came up into the wind, and, falling off, drifted down
upon us until it was certain we would be alongside
in a few minutes.
“Tumble up here, ye bullies,” he cried, in his
drawling tones, and, as he spoke, his men came
bounding from below, rushing for the starboard
fore-rigging, to come aboard us the instant the
vessels fouled. Luckily the battery was loaded,
and in an instant Hawkson was at the guns with
Gull, Henry, and myself, bawling for men to leave
the main-braces and lend a hand, while Howard
himself rolled the wheel hard up again.
The brig fell off until her jib-boom came across
the poop, where Hicks and a couple of men tried to
bear it off astern. They only partly succeeded, but
they managed to keep it clear of the backstays and
prevent fouling, while the brig’s crew fired several
shot into us, getting in return our four heavy
.bn 239.png
.pn +1
twelves, that did some execution among them, several
men falling upon the deck at the discharge.
Howard jumped forward on the poop, calling for
men to repel boarders, and, after firing the last
gun, we swarmed up the poop-ladder to check the
piratical-looking crew that had now left everything
on the brig’s deck, and was climbing into her chains,
armed with cutlass and pistol, for a spring aboard
us.
The long skipper balanced himself on the fore
sheer-pole, with his cutlass swinging in his hand
and a belt stuck full of pistols. In an instant he
gave a yell for his men to follow, and sprang with
the ease of a cat upon our poop-rail, right among
us. It was a long jump, and only possible for a
man of great length of limb.
“Come on, Brannigan,” he drawled out to his
mate, making a slash at Howard’s bare poll, but the
old skipper warded off the blow, while we rushed
in upon him. Then we were favoured by a most
singular turn of fortune, aided by Hawkson’s skill.
A lively little puff of wind filled our spreading
canvas and shoved the barque ahead. Before the
brig could quite reach us, we had drawn a couple
of fathoms clear. One fellow threw a grappling-hook
over our rail, but Bill cut the line. Hawkson
jumped for the forebrace, calling for men to follow,
and, before the brig’s crew realized it, we had extended
.bn 240.png
.pn +1
the couple of fathoms into a dozen, and
were slipping along before the light breeze very
handsomely indeed.
In vain did the Yankee crew fire at us with their
small arms. Not a soul was hit, and, while their
helmsman rolled the wheel up to follow in our wake,
I trained the heavy stern-chasers upon him, and
sent a couple of shots through his foresail, which
rendered that piece of canvas worse than useless.
While these affairs were taking place, Shannon
was having a lively time of it on our poop. He
sprang away from the first rush upon him, but so
covered our men that his own could not deliver
an effective shot without danger of killing their
leader. He bawled lustily for his mate, Brannigan,
and, being so hard pressed, he could not turn to
see what had happened, wondering why he had
been so suddenly deserted.
Then he heard shouting recede astern, and, as
he listened to Mr. Brannigan’s tongue expressing
the grossest possible encomiums upon us, he realized
the game was up. He sprang backward a space
and turned to clear the rail, preferring to take his
chances swimming back to his vessel than to accept
our hospitality. At this instant, however, Yankee
Dan sprang upon him from behind and clasped him
firmly around the legs, at the same time calling for
some one to bring a lashing to make him fast. The
.bn 241.png
.pn +1
plucky trader would have had a hard time of it
but for Henry. Shannon tore him clear, and was
about to heave him over the side also, when the
ferret-faced man, with a bound like a monkey,
fastened those terrible fingers of his into Shannon’s
throat. It was useless to try to shake him off, for
well I knew the fatal strength of his grip. We let
him hold on while we passed a line about the struggling
man, hoping we would get him fast before the
strangle would kill.
The long man’s struggles were terrific. Twice
he flung Gull and myself from him, giving Yankee
Dan a kick that shot him clear across the deck, and
landed him helpless to leeward. Big Jones alone
managed to keep his hold beside Henry, and I heard
the high, cackling laugh of old Howard enjoying
the struggle. Up and down, sometimes all in a
tangle, we rolled over and over that poop, Shannon
gradually getting blue in the face and weakening
under that horrible grip. But he was an American,
and fought with the steadiness of a man who was
used to taking trouble lightly. Finally we drew the
line close about him, pinning his arms to his sides,
and then passed a gasket over his ankles. Then
Henry let go, but the want of air had done its work,
and the long fellow lay limp as a rag. We stood
up, gasping for breath from our exertions, and
then Howard’s high cackle sounded upon our ears.
.bn 242.png
.pn +1
“Hi, hi, hi! don’t kill him. Throw a bucket
of water over the fellow,” he cried. “We want
that man. We need that long rascal.”
Ernest started to get a draw-bucket, but, before
he left the poop, Watkins came from below with
a bottle of spirits, and, running to the long skipper,
raised his head and poured a little into his mouth.
This nearly finished Henry’s work, but, instead of
choking to death, Shannon gave a gasp and choke,
blowing the liquor out of his mouth.
At this instant a shot from the brig struck the
deck close to Watkins, ripping a great rent in the
white planks, and driving a cloud of splinters among
us. One of these long pieces of pine struck the
old steward in the middle of the back. It drove
clear through his body, and came out several inches
in front, piercing him through and through. He
gave a sharp scream, dropped the bottle, and rose
to his feet with staring eyes. Then he drew forth
a pistol and pointed it at my head. Before he could
pull the trigger, he staggered and fell, the weapon
exploding harmlessly, and when we reached him
he was dead.
Howard came to where he lay, and gazed down
upon him for an instant, while Gull, Hawkson, and
the rest went at the long stern-chasers, and opened
fire again upon the brig, which was still within close
range. I stood but a moment gazing at the old
.bn 243.png
.pn +1
steward, with somewhat mixed feelings in regard
to him, and, as Howard ordered a couple of men
to carry him below, I joined the rest at the guns.
We now delivered such a heavy and accurate fire
upon the pirate slaver that it soon silenced him, and
in half an hour we were well out of range, leaving
him with his foremast over the side and several of
his numerous crew killed and wounded.
We had lost two men, Pete, the dago, and Watkins,
the steward, while a fellow named Guinea
was badly wounded in the leg, and a German sailor,
named Johns, had received a bullet through the
arm. Altogether a heavy loss for a vessel without
a fighting crew. We had had a narrow escape from
being boarded by a stronger force, and, while I
knew we would have given a good account of ourselves,
our officers showed good judgment in not
engaging too closely a force of Americans with our
mongrel crowd. The brig was at our mercy before
we finished, but there was nothing to be gained
by taking her, and Howard seemed more than satisfied
in having taken her skipper. I expected him
to lay the barque across the brig’s bow, and fire at
her until she sank, but instead he kept straight away
on his course, without thought of revenge further
than the chastisement already administered.
As we loaded the guns for the last time, holding
.bn 244.png
.pn +1
the fire in reserve, a voice broke upon our ears that
had grown familiar of late.
“I wanter know! I wanter know! What the
devil has happened around here, anyway?” it
drawled. “Am I a soger, an’ this here a battlefield
covered with blood and glory, or am I on a
stinking slave-ship? That’s what’s worryin’ me.”
And then Shannon proceeded to pronounce the
grossest possible things upon us.
.bn 245.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XXVII. | OUR CAPTAIN
.sp 2
Captain Shannon had recovered and had tried
to rise into a sitting position, but the lines upon
him were none too softly drawn, and he found himself
stiff as a mummy, being lashed from above
his able elbows to his long and pointed shoes.
Mr. Curtis, who had arrived on deck in time
to take part in the fracas, now insisted that our
captive be set free on the promise that he would
not attempt to either make further disturbances or
go overboard.
“Disturbance! I wanter know,” said Shannon,
“who’s the one makin’ the disturbance? Here I
just politely hopped aboard your ole barque, an’
some gorilla in breeches nabs me by the mizzen and
jest naturally stops my bazoo. Why didn’t ye
finish the job instead o’ bringing me to again to
swing me at your yard-arm.”
“We don’t intend to swing you,” said Curtis.
.bn 246.png
.pn +1
“If you behave yourself, we’ll promise not to harm
you until--until--”
“Until what, I wanter know?” said Shannon.
It was evident that Mr. Curtis had meant to say
that he would deliver him over to the authorities
of law and order at the first port touched, but, upon
consideration, this seemed manifestly absurd. The
Gentle Hand was not hunting authorities for law
and order just at the time, and the matter must
necessarily be settled by the parties interested, which,
after all, is considered not unfair by most human
beings who do not care to bother their neighbours
with their personal affairs.
While this was taking place, Miss Allen, who
had remained below to escape injury during the
engagement, now appeared on deck, and instantly
noticed the captive. She gazed at him in astonishment,
and asked how he came aboard.
He seemed as much surprised at seeing a woman
aboard a slaver as if she had been a naval officer
in uniform. As he solemnly swore that he would
not fight any more, his lashings were cast adrift
below his waist, and he was raised to his feet.
“Well, I wanter know,” was his first comment,
as he stood looking at the trader’s daughter. “Be
you goin’ to make the middle passage, miss?”
The “middle passage” was that from the slave
coast, with human freight, to the point of destination
.bn 247.png
.pn +1
of the slave, and the term was used to distinguish
that part of the voyage from the one out
and the return. The term was American, but applied
as well to British ships, who, like ourselves,
sailed first out of some English port. Miss Allen
smiled at the long fellow and looked into his faded
yellow eyes, but she disdained to answer him, and
he was hustled forward by several men, while he
broke forth afresh in a low tone, pouring a stream
of the foulest invective upon them in the easy and
indolent manner that was characteristic of his speech.
During the following fortnight we made good
way to the southward, passing the high peak of
Teneriffe the third day out of Funchal, leaving
it a dark cloud upon the eastern horizon. We held
our course now closer in toward the coast, but still
distant enough to be offshore from any cruiser that
might be watching for slave-ships.
Then we crossed the line and stood in through
the Guinea Current for the Gulf, heading straight
for the Bight of Benin.
Our captive had by this time given abundant
evidence that he could be trusted about the decks
without danger of his trying to escape. In fact,
he appeared to take a fancy to The Gentle Hand.
Martin, who appeared drawn to the fellow, several
times announced that it was a shame to keep his
hands in irons, and, after repeating this to Henry
.bn 248.png
.pn +1
and Mr. Gull for some days, it reached Hawkson
and the captain.
We were now three men short in the crew, and
an extra man, especially of Shannon’s build and
energy, was a matter to be considered. The mate
held out strenuously for either putting the long fellow
ashore or hanging him forthwith, but, as Curtis,
Hicks, and the rest were absolutely set against
such a measure as capital punishment, and the land
was some distance off, the inevitable took place.
That is, Shannon was practically shanghaied into
the ship, but chose to sign articles of his own free
will to become a member of her crew, and was
regularly installed.
His great delight was to dwell humourously upon
the adventure of the treasure-box in Funchal, telling
at some length how Brannigan, his mate, who
had come aboard in the chest, had dropped right
upon Jennings, the Dutch sailor’s back, when he
went over the side. This accounted for the state
of Jennings’s head, for the skipper assured us that
Mr. Brannigan was a man of parts, and could do
up a whole ship full of square-heads. He explained
how angry he had become at the mistake he had
made in taking Mr. Gull’s boat for the one meant
for him, and how he had thrashed each member
of the boat’s crew for not pulling harder and getting
under the stern half a minute sooner. The
.bn 249.png
.pn +1
only thing that prevented our capture in the last
encounter was the fact that Brannigan had failed
to jump aboard, but if he had, the two of them
could easily have taken the barque.
While we had some doubts about the last statement,
we were entertained to a high degree, and
Shannon became rapidly a favourite. More especially
as we had already had some evidence of his
prowess, and a look from his faded eyes following
a drawling request for tobacco or other commodity
had the usual effect of producing considerable attention
from the person addressed. His arms, of
course, had been delivered aft, but he had a way
of gazing at one that made a person feel that his
good-will was of the utmost value. Martin was
his devoted companion, and Anderson, who had
been badly bruised and stunned by the shot that
had killed Pete, even forgave the damage and appeared
much more friendly than we had reason to
expect. Bill and I had several talks over the Scot’s
peculiar manner with the stranger, and we became
more friendly and confidential over the subject.
Big Jones kept his own counsel, and seemed to
admire the long limbs of the Yankee skipper, yet
did not care too much for his company.
Jorg, with a gang of helpers consisting of Tom
and Tim, two Liverpool dock-rats of the other
watch, and Ernest and Heligoland, kept hard at
.bn 250.png
.pn +1
work repairing the damage done us by the brig’s
six-pounders, and were hardly finished by the time
we sighted the low coast near Lagos.
The haze which hangs over the surf in the Guinea
Gulf hides the land until a vessel is almost upon
it. We were close in, and could hear the dull thunder
of the swell falling upon the sand before we
realized that the run was over, and the work of
trading and capturing human beings would begin.
No time was lost after we came to soundings.
The boats were made ready and the anchors gotten
over the bows, while the topsails, though clewed
up, were left hanging ready to sheet home at a
moment’s warning. A man was posted in the foretop
all day, and everything done to prevent a surprise
of some prowling man-of-war. Even Hawkson
showed signs of peculiar alertness, and his
nervousness, though slight, was quickly transmitted
to both Gull and Henry.
Only old Howard seemed impervious to the excitement,
and ambled about the poop unconcernedly,
watching the shore until we had reached the mouth
of a low, marshy river.
The breeze was off the land, and the barque was
hove to, while the small boat was manned and sent
in with Yankee Dan and Hicks to see if there were
any negroes to be procured.
I managed to pull stroke oar, and went more to
.bn 251.png
.pn +1
see how the business was to be conducted than anything
else. We had half a dozen muskets in the
boat, with powder and lead, to use in defence, if
necessary, or in trade if possible. Yankee Dan
was so nervous that Hicks insisted on taking the
tiller as we headed for the beach, and he picked
up a loaded gun and laid it handy upon the stern-sheets
in case of emergency.
The breeze being light and offshore, the heat
of the equatorial sun was intense. It was about
nine o’clock in the morning when the barque stood
in, and it was nearly eight bells now, the sun being
at its height, and the sky a brazen dome of heat
above us.
It took quite half an hour to pull in, for the
shore was really several miles distant, and by the
time we neared the huge white combers rolling in
upon the sand, we were so hot that under other conditions
an upset in the breakers would have been
welcomed by all hands.
As it was, we skirted the shore just outside the
lift of the outer breaker, and soon found an opening
over the bar at the river mouth. Hicks headed
in through this opening, regardless of consequences,
and we were soon carried by the current well in
behind the southern point of sand. Here we found
the marshy banks of the river stretching away inland,
and upon one just behind a little rise covered
.bn 252.png
.pn +1
with low trees, we saw the slave factory, as the
pens were called where the unfortunates were corralled.
There was not a sign of life anywhere, and the
only sound that broke the glaring stillness was the
deep-toned roar of the surf outside.
Suddenly there was a sharp “ping,” and a crack
upon the boat’s gunwale, followed by the report
of a rifle.
“Way enough,” said Hicks, calmly. And we
rested on our oars, with our chins on our shoulders,
trying to see who had welcomed us so cordially.
Yankee Dan stood up and waved his hat from
side to side, in token of friendship, and almost instantly
a man strode out from the palisade, now but
fifty fathoms distant.
“Stop that firing and come aboard,” bawled the
trader.
“Give way together,” said Hicks, and we sent
the boat rapidly towards the beach, and ran her nose
high and dry on the sand.
.bn 253.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XXVIII. | MY FIRST GLIMPSE OF SLAVERY
.sp 2
A heavy-built, squat Guinea, as the Portuguese
here are called, greeted us as we sprang ashore.
He was a villainous-looking scoundrel, and his rifle
and knife did little to improve his formidable appearance.
His white teeth showed in an ugly smile,
as he explained in broken English that we had been
mistaken for the boat of a British cruiser that had
been lately on the coast, and he had fired at us
accordingly.
Hicks was not ready to believe his lie, and, had
it not been for the trader, would undoubtedly have
pistolled him where he stood, but Dan was used
to the tricks of the pirates, and knew better than
to show his feelings. Several rascally black men
armed with rifles now came from the palisade, and
we seized our rifles from the boat to be ready for
any tricks. The Guinea, however, only grinned
and shrugged his shoulders, and invited us to his
place to consider business. His followers, dressed
.bn 254.png
.pn +1
only in gee-strings and ammunition-belts, laid aside
their arms in token of friendship, and thus reassured
we filed into the enclosure.
If I had at any time doubted my distaste for the
life I was leading, there could have been no chance
for such a thing after entering that “factory” where
slaves were made. Of all the horrible places on
earth, save perhaps the hold of the overdue slaver
at the end of the middle passage, that filthy den
was the most awful. In the mire made by their
own dung, like a lot of hogs, the cursed sons of
Ham lay or stood in the fierce sunshine, awaiting
the coming of some pirates like ourselves to take
them to a foreign land, and sell them into comparative
comfort and luxury to work for their white
masters. Ugly they were in the extreme, their
black, brutish faces having nothing more human
about them than those of apes, but even monkeys
should be shown some consideration if they would
be made to live. Women with infants were kept
in a separate pen, but the older ones were thrown
in with the men, without a vestige of clothing, not
even a clout or gee-string. The younger girls the
Guinea kept in his own house, having over fifty that
he formed into a seraglio for himself and guards.
Yankee Dan showed at once his familiarity with
the business in hand, and instantly began negotiations
by prodding a stalwart black in the ribs, and
.bn 255.png
.pn +1
pinching his biceps, while the poor creature smiled
and grinned, jabbering something unintelligible,
but at the same time trying to show that he was a
powerful fellow and should be taken away to work.
The hot stench of the pen made me sick, and for
a time I was nauseated to a degree. Gradually I
became used to it, but noticed that Gus and another
man were upset. As for Hicks, he simply kept his
handkerchief to his nose and gasped. I hardly
think he realized what slaving was when he embarked
in the enterprise, for the voyage was still
a thing just begun, and, with a hold full of the
filthy creatures, the smell can better be imagined
than described. I can only say that it was more
nauseating, penetrating, and more unlike any odour
I ever before encountered.
In a short time, Yankee Dan, who could speak
any language separately and fluently, and who could
curse and swear in all combined, had, with some
persuasion and some forceful epithets, convinced
the Guinea that he meant business, and would take
on the fifty-four human beings enclosed there at a
certain figure. Three other white men now entered,
and the wrangling became animated, the bargain,
however, being finally closed with the understanding
that we would leave the vicinity by noon the next
day, and pay in gold and arms.
I was glad enough to get clear of the vile place,
.bn 256.png
.pn +1
and, as we men were not invited to the slaver’s house
to take a drink to show good feeling, we missed the
foulness it contained. Hicks accompanied Dan to
the “palace,” and I must give him credit that he
did so with less grace than he usually showed upon
occasions of invitation. The rest of us sought the
shade of the river-bank, where some scrub-palms
offered shelter from the terrible sunshine. Here
we were joined by some of the slaver’s guard, who
now sought every opportunity to propitiate our
good-will, telling yarns and explaining the interesting
back country, where the curse of the bar and
shackle had laid its grisly hand.
One of the guards, although a black, had been to
London as a free man, having never been a slave,
but belonging to a Congo tribe that held sway to
the southward of St. Paul de Loando, and which,
owing to its control of a part of the coast, had to
be treated with respect by the villains that scoured
the Bight.
This fellow spoke English fairly well, and he
described at length how the slave-trade was being
ruined by the men-of-war that hunted and cruised
between the Congo and Senegal. These vessels were
sometimes quite small, some being only brigs of ten
to twelve guns, but most of them were very fast
and heavily manned, quite able to overhaul and
capture even the fast flyers that plied the trade
.bn 257.png
.pn +1
against the law. One of these cruisers, an American,
called the Hornet, was a sloop of war of the fastest
type, having overhauled the Bat, a schooner of some
two hundred tons, which had the record of being the
fastest vessel that had ever sailed out of New Orleans.
This conversation was interesting, especially as
the cruiser was last seen off Lagos only a month
before, and I wished more than ever that I had taken
more pains not to have joined the expedition. Then
I thought of the young girl aboard, and wondered
at her father bringing her into such scenes of danger
and bloodshed, with the shadow of the hangman’s
noose from the yard-arm continually over the black
barque and her crew.
Gus, the Swede, spoke uneasily of the future, but
the great black pirate only showed his teeth and
swore softly in Portuguese. For him life meant
very little indeed, and if he could capture a nice
young girl now and then and get ammunition for
his rifle, it was all he desired. No man-of-war
should take these small pleasures from him if desperate
fighting could prevent it, and, as for danger,
he lived on it. It was in the very air of the deadly
swamps and forests, and he survived solely because
he was fit.
Pointing to an indistinct object across the river,
he broke forth fiercely:
.bn 258.png
.pn +1
“That’s all left of a fine village. Plenty rum,
plenty slaves, plenty powder. Now all gone. Why?
Man-of-war fire it and destroy. Some day man-of-war
try factory here. Want to be here den,”
and he patted his rifle-stock affectionately. Part
of the gang to which he belonged were now up the
river hunting villages and scattered bands of negroes,
but they were becoming scarce, and the death-rate
being high, it hardly paid going up after them.
In a little while Hicks and Dan came back, accompanied
by the half-dozen Portuguese and some
black fellows, and we started to the ship to make
ready for our cargo. Slaves were more plentiful
to the eastward perhaps, but we would take what
we could get and hurry along, trusting to evade
a cruiser until the cargo was made up.
We took one of the Guinea fellows back with
us to pilot us through the surf on the bar, and arrived
alongside without accident.
A line of heads peered over the topgallant-rail,
watching curiously our passenger, and, as the boat
fell alongside, the drawling tones of Shannon broke
forth.
“What’s niggers at now, stranger?” said he,
addressing the Guinea.
“Way down, way down. Bucks runnin’ for ten
to twenty. Fine gals thirty and forty,” cried the
.bn 259.png
.pn +1
fellow from the boat, evidently thinking he was
addressing our commander.
Shannon gave a great sigh, and looked wistfully
at the shore.
“An’ here I am,” said he, “without a ship. It’s
hard luck. I wanter know, I wanter know.”
.bn 260.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XXIX. | WE LAY IN OUR CARGO
.sp 2
The next day was a busy one aboard The Gentle
Hand. All the boats were gotten out early, and the
barque headed in shore again. We had stood off at
night, for fear of a current setting us into the breakers,
and we did not care to let go an anchor.
By two bells (nine o’clock) in the forenoon, we
were close in to the bar at the river mouth, the
breeze giving us way at the rate of about five knots,
but, as we drew under the land, it became puffy
and showed signs of dying out altogether. It was
decided not to go in any closer, so the foreyards
were left full, the main backed, and the forestaysail
hauled amidship, heaving the barque to with a slight
reach to the southward.
Pretty nearly all hands tumbled into the boats
and rowed through the broiling sunshine for the
beach, it being the captain’s object to get all the
cargo aboard at once, and stand off to work along
to the eastward.
.bn 261.png
.pn +1
By noon the first boat-load of the poor creatures
arrived. There were fourteen of them closely
packed and manacled in the bottom of the craft.
As they drew nearer, they set up a chattering like
a crowd of monkeys, and the Guinea in charge
rapped them severely over the head with a stout
stick, bidding them be quiet. Their white eyeballs
and teeth shone in contrast to their skins, and the
excitement they were undergoing made them show
both eyes and teeth much more than usual, giving
them a strange, wild look. Streaks of mud and
filth showed upon their black bodies. The men had
little kinky beards upon their chins and lips, and
the women had huge bunches of wool on their heads,
which were simply great nests of dirt and vermin.
Poor creatures, they were hardly human, but for all
that I felt sorry for them when I thought of the
’tween-decks of the barque under that torrid sun.
Henry hustled them on deck, and Jorg, with a
couple of men, sent them below at once to get them
out of the way. By eight bells, we had the crowd
below, where they kept chattering until Gull went
among them with a long whip, and touched them
up lustily whenever they made a noise. Martin,
Anderson, Bill, Shannon, and myself went in for
the last boat-load.
The heat was terrible, and the breeze was almost
imperceptible after the bar was crossed, making all
.bn 262.png
.pn +1
hands quiet and sullen with the exertion. Inside
the river mouth the same glaring quiet prevailed,
broken only now and then by the sound of a gull’s
scream, the dull, heavy rumble of the swell only
adding to the desolate stillness.
“’Tis a good coast for the business,” said Martin,
in a low tone to the long sailor, who was rowing
stroke oar. I held the tiller, and had charge,
but Martin appeared to think my rating did not command
silence, and I let him speak.
The fellow Shannon only looked over his shoulder
up the turbid stream that flowed around the distant
point of marsh in the direction of the heavy forest
beyond.
“What better place d’ye want? ’Twould be a
good one to find ye in that glade,” continued the
Scot.
“There’s mighty little water on the bar, Scotty,”
said Shannon. “What the devil would become of
yer ship, I wanter know?”
“Lighten her more, lighten her. Take out her
guns and ballast. She’d be a floatin’ fort until ye
were ready to go to sea full o’ niggers. Mon, mon,
na mon-o’-war c’u’d come after ye, an’ as fer small
boats--hoot!” And he gave a cry of contempt at
the idea.
“Joust whin would ye do these things, friend
Martin?” asked Bill.
.bn 263.png
.pn +1
“Shut up, ye square-head. Keep silence when
men are speakin’, or I’ll be fer whollopin’ ye the
minit we hit the beach,” growled Martin.
Then they rowed on in the heat without a word,
the regular clank of the oar-locks sounding over the
glassy surface of the stream with the regularity of
the ticking of a clock.
We ran the boat up near the “factory,” and the
villainous Guinea in charge brought down the last
instalment of the slaves. Some of them were young
girls barely in their teens, but all without any clothing
whatever. The sun would have flayed a white
man and cooked him to death in half an hour, but
they appeared not to suffer with the heat. Some of
the girls were made to spring into the river, with
a line attached, in order that they might get a last
bath before entering the hell in store for them. One
tried to remain under water and drown herself; at
least the Guinea feared that was her design, for
he hauled her in hand over hand, and administered
several whacks to brace her up, while I sat and
tried to invent some new opprobrious epithet to call
him, finally exhausting the English language without
apparent effect.
One girl, who had left behind her brother and
relatives, on account of their not coming up to
Yankee Dan’s standard of fitness for a middle passage,
was tearful and sad. This poor creature was
.bn 264.png
.pn +1
flung into the water, and held by a strapping black
buck, who used a bunch of grass to scrub her clean.
Her piteous screams had no effect on him, so, when
my patience was quite exhausted by the heat, I
seized an oar. He was bending over, and wore nothing
but a gee-string. The swing of the oar landed
fair on his buttocks with all the weight and strength
I could put into it, and he shot forward with a crack,
making a very creditable dive into deep water. It
was only because payment had not been complete
that bloodshed was averted when he arose, for he
made straight for his rifle, which had to be forced
from him by half a dozen pirates as fierce and powerful
as himself. Finally we had the crowd all aboard,
and shoved off for the barque, meeting the boat
with the Portuguese fellow, who had gone aboard
for the pay, just as we cleared the breakers.
Arriving aboard, we soon had the blacks below,
and, as payment had been made in gold for our
cargo, we had nothing further to do with the scoundrels
on the beach. The yards were swung, and we
stood offshore to take advantage of the light breeze
and work along the coast to the eastward, in the
hope of picking up the rest of our cargo before some
prying ship-of-war should overhaul us. For several
days we worked along without any luck. One or
two places Dan knew of had been deserted since the
law against slaving had begun to be enforced, and
.bn 265.png
.pn +1
we had to row in through a heavy surf to find this
out. This caused the loss of one boat and the drowning
of a sailor named Tom, an English cockney chap
of little account. During this part of the cruise,
I had much to do on the poop, keeping the battery
in order and ready for instant action. I saw something
of the life aft, and the feeling between Mr.
Curtis and Hicks, which had shown itself that night
in the town of Funchal. These two men, whose
interests were identical, seldom spoke directly to
each other now, and only when the trader’s daughter
appeared on deck did they show anything but
polite hatred in their speech. Curtis was sarcastic,
and Hicks was almost as savage by the time we
reached Lagos and ran in to finish loading. Miss
Allen seemed to avoid both as much as possible,
although it was quite evident that she favoured the
bolder of the two adventurers. Curtis was anything
but a coward, but Hicks had a certain reckless gallantry
about him that could hardly fail to attract.
Forward I had been entertained several times by
Martin’s brutal jests regarding affairs aft, and, as
the girl had always been civil to me, it was all I
could do not to chastise the rogue for his foul tongue.
My apparent apathy, however, gave him cause to
believe I favoured him, and soon he spoke of things
that caused me to pay attention and watch him more
closely.
.bn 266.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XXX. | I SUSPECT TREACHERY
.sp 2
The night we stood in for settlement, there was
a bright moon nearly full. We could hear the snore
of the surf before midnight, and we shortened the
barque down to her topsails in order not to go too
fast.
The breeze was fitful and squally off the land
as usual, and bringing with it the thick haze of
pollen from the rank vegetation on shore. The air
being hot, the watch below stayed on deck and lay
in the waterway or behind the deck-house, trying
to catch the draught blown on the deck from the
stretched canvas as it slid under the foot of the
main and foresails.
Martin was lying in the shadow of the foremast
to keep the moon out of his eyes, and he shifted his
position every little while as the bright light followed
him around the mast. Beside him lay Anderson,
and near by, in the open moonlight, in total disregard
for his eyes, was stretched the long skipper,
.bn 267.png
.pn +1
Shannon, prone upon his back, with his shirt open
to catch the breeze.
I sat near the fore-hatchway and watched the
shadow of the fabric above swing to and fro upon
the deck planks, the lines of the rigging standing
out sharp and black on the white wood, the dark
blots of the canvas moving slowly within a certain
radius with each easy roll of the long swell. It
was a bright tropic moon, and it was serenely beautiful.
I lounged there, enjoying the silvery light, and
hated to sleep lest I miss some of the rare beauty
of the darker hours.
Gradually the men on watch settled themselves
comfortably, and only the steady tramp of the man
on lookout upon the forecastle head, and Hawkson’s
step upon the poop told of life aboard. Once or
twice the mate’s hoarse voice sounded gruffly, asking
Holmberg, who was at the wheel, how she
headed, and the answer came low and distinct
through the quiet night. The musical hiss and
twinkle of the side-wash sounded restful upon the
ear after the day’s toil and heat, and seemed to tell
of cool sprays. I had the right to sleep, but only
dozed, thinking of the disagreeable work in store
for us. We would probably take on many blacks
here, and nearly, if not quite, fill up with them.
Those already aboard gave forth an odour that was
far from reassuring, coming as it did up the open
.bn 268.png
.pn +1
hatchway, and I dreaded several hundred more
creatures jammed below there, where they must of
necessity die like vermin in a box.
While I dozed, I became aware of a whispered
conversation. Soon I recognized Martin’s voice,
though I could not quite hear his words. He seemed
to be talking to Shannon, who had now rolled over
in the shadow of the mast alongside of the Scot.
I listened again, for the fellow’s voice was eager,
as it was when he talked of any deviltry he expected
to enjoy, and I noticed the same tone he used to
me when we first made our acquaintance, and when
we discussed the probability of the barque becoming
a rover and preying upon any vessel of smaller
size.
“D’ye ken that? I say, ye long man, d’ye ken
that?” said he in answer to a question he had evidently
asked. “’Tis as easy fer us as not. There’s
Anderson waiting to kill the mate, an’ Jorg willin’
to kill any one, and there’s Pat, Gus, Gilbert, an’
the Doctor willin’ to follow. Hoot! we’d make a
finish, na fear. Why, ye c’u’d whollop half the crew
yerself, ye long cateran. Didn’t ye nigh do it the
day ye made yer jump into the hooker? Help ye?
Now, now, c’u’d I have helped ye? Na, na, don’t
ask mericles. I let fly the jib, but ’twould have been
murder an’ sudden death to have gone aft then.
All armed, an’ with that gunner man fightin’ like
.bn 269.png
.pn +1
a sack o’ wildcats, an’ the little fox havin’ a death-grip
on yer pipe. Talk sense an’ to the p’int.”
“You air a loose-jawed hell-dog, I wanter know,”
said Shannon. “D’you suppose it’s fear a-keepin’
me, hey? What’d you know about the coast, anyways?
What’d you want to try an’ tell me?” Then
in a more friendly tone: “I know you air a navigator.
Good sailor, all right, an’ would stick to a
job, but there is a right time for business. I’m
a-runnin’ this thing, an’ all you’ve got to do is wait
till I says the word. I think a whole lot o’ ye, Martin,
an’ would hate to see you swing. There ain’t
no one I cares as much for, that’s a fact. An’ when
a fellow like me cares for a man,--I say a man,
Martin, for that’s what you are, hey? When a fellow
like me says that, that same thing, it stands fer
something. If it don’t, I wanter know.”
This sort of flattery evidently pleased the Scot.
He said something in a low tone, and I felt convinced
that he was easily within the power of the
long countryman of mine. It’s strange, but immediately
after hearing this, I must have lost consciousness,
for when I awoke it was gray dawn
and a chill filled the air. The watch was called,
and I turned out by simply standing up and then
sitting down again.
In a little while we washed down the damp decks,
and I had a chance to get a look to the northeast,
.bn 270.png
.pn +1
when the haze of the surf blotted out the shore-line.
By the time the Doctor had his fire started and we
had something warm, the sun rose and disclosed
the ruinous settlement of Lagos.
The conversation I had heard disturbed me.
There was something sinister in its meaning, and,
while I had no love for the barque, I did not care
to make a bad matter worse. However, I had no
chance to talk the matter over until we had run
in and dropped our anchor close to the settlement,
and there Yankee Dan appeared on deck ready to
go ashore for trading. Howard and Curtis also
turned out, and Miss Allen appeared at the companion,
very much interested in the distant shore,
where the houses were just visible in the morning
sunshine.
She smiled somewhat sadly at me as I went aft
and loosed the covers from the stern guns, and saw
that the priming was in good order. I had begun
to think the poor girl out of place long before, and
I now felt a sort of hatred for her father, who could
expose her to such scenes without any apparent pity.
But the trader had become callous from experience
in the slaving business, and saw nothing unusual
in cooping up a shipful of human beings. They
were no more than so many cattle to him, and, as
to his daughter’s feelings, he had offered her a
.bn 271.png
.pn +1
chance to stay ashore. If she preferred the scenes
of violence, it was no concern of his.
Before I had a chance to see Hawkson, the shore
boat was called away. Bill, Jones, Jennings, and
myself manned the whale-boat, and we were soon
heading in over the swell for the slave factory that
was known to exist a short distance inland. Hicks
and Gull accompanied the trader ashore, and the
latter stood at the steering-oar to pilot us through
the surf. In spite of the calm weather in the Bight
of Benin, there is sometimes a heavy swell that sets
in from many miles offshore, where some passing
disturbance of the atmosphere has caused a heavy
blow. The swell is long and heaving, and not so
easily noticed until it begins to rise in the shoal
water. Then its size develops, and it goes up in
a wall until the top breaks and the whole mass goes
roaring shoreward in a great smother of foam.
From the sea side, the height of the breakers is hard
to judge, and they are very apt to be underestimated
on a calm day.
Mr. Gull stood up as we neared the first line of
snoring water, and I could see by his face that
he was a bit nervous. This had its effect on me,
for no one with any nervousness should attempt to
go through a heavy surf. The situation calls for
absolute coolness.
“Easy now,” came the order, and we lay waiting
.bn 272.png
.pn +1
for a smooth spell. By some strange freak of nature,
seas always roll in sequences. That is, they
will run in twos and three or sixes and nines, with
a “smooth” between. A surfman will always watch
to see how they are running before going in. Gull
counted three heavy fellows that roared and thundered
in a most appalling manner, and then, grasping
the long steering-oar firmly, sung out to give
way lively.
We went racing for the beach, and were doing
well when, on looking over the stern, I saw an enormous
sea rising and coming quickly after us. It
rose like a wall astern and towered above the boat.
Then instantly it broke with a roar and rush, and
we were hurled before it. Gull tried to hold her
true, keeping her stern to the surge, but she took
a slew and the oar broke. Then she swung sideways
and rolled over and over with the rush, and
when I came to the surface of the foam, half-strangled
by being so quickly rolled out of the boat,
she lay bottom up some ten fathoms distant, floating
in the smother.
No one was visible, and I struck out for the craft,
as there was no bottom and the beach was fifty
fathoms distant. Suddenly I saw Bill spattering
and struggling, trying to reach the wreck, but showing
plainly that he could not swim a stroke. Ernest
suddenly appeared alongside of him, and, being
.bn 273.png
.pn +1
able to swim after a fashion, he aided him to reach
the gunwale, where both held on firmly, ducking the
following seas that flowed over them.
Jennings managed to keep his grip on the boat,
and was alongside, holding on, when I noticed a
form floating face downward pass me.
I was a fairly good swimmer, although it is a
strange fact that few real sailormen can swim at
all. I grasped the body and lifted the head clear
of the water with my hand just as another sea broke
heavily over me, dragging and crushing me down
with its weight.
My heart seemed bursting when I arose, still
holding the insensible man, and my first intake of
breath nearly strangled me. However, I was a
powerful fellow, and in a few strokes managed to
get started for the upturned boat that now floated
some distance nearer shore.
In a few minutes I reached her, and Bill relieved
me for a moment while I passed a line over the
craft’s bottom. On the other side I found Jones
and Yankee Dan both safe and holding on. Together
we managed to hold Hicks, whom I now
recognized, clear of the water. He had been struck
on the head by the boat or an oar and knocked insensible.
Gull was nowhere about, and for some
time we gave him up for lost, but he had swum
in on a broken thwart.
.bn 274.png
.pn +1
In a little while we heard shouting, and saw him
standing on the sand with a couple of black fellows,
who, at his direction, plunged in and came toward
us. The negroes helped us ashore, and we hauled
the boat up clear of the surf. It was a close call,
and Hicks still appeared either dead or senseless.
We carried him up the beach and laid him under
a palm, and set to work chafing his wrists and
ankles.
In a little while he opened his eyes and noticed
me.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, faintly, trying
to sit up. Bill caught his head and held it, while
Gull passed his arm under him.
“Trying to quit the expedition,” said Yankee
Dan, bluffly. “You were trying to leave us, my boy,
but this fellow, Heywood, here, nabbed you in time,
and swam in to the boat with you. Otherwise you’d
’a’ been drowned, an’ that’s a fact. You’d ’a’ been
drowned sure.”
Hicks looked at me seriously for some moments
and then spoke:
“It’s hard to owe one’s life to a fool, but here’s
my hand, Heywood,” said he, with a faint smile.
“It’s as hard to acknowledge the favour from
one, sir,” I answered, with some little feeling, but
then I remembered the time at Funchal, and I smiled
.bn 275.png
.pn +1
and held out my hand, which he grasped firmly, and
rose to his feet.
Sir John Hicks was a man of rather unsavoury
reputation, but he was not a man who would be
gross enough to forget.
.bn 276.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XXXI. | I MEET CORTELLI
.sp 2
While the trader, Mr. Gull, and Hicks were
ashore, there was no chance whatever of communicating
any of my suspicions concerning Martin and
Shannon. Just what these rascals intended to do
was certainly a matter of doubt, and, after all, the
talk had been so characteristic of the Scot that I
feared I was taking it too seriously to give it a
thought.
We tramped over the loose sand to the factory,
a couple of miles inland, and the heat of the marsh
was awful. Hicks, who had hardly recovered from
the accident of the morning, had difficulty in keeping
up, for his head was still giddy from the effects
of the blow he had received upon it. The black
fellows, who had sighted our barque before daylight,
had thought nothing of a run to the beach, and
they went ahead at a great rate along the jungle
path, caring neither for briars, spines, or any of
the various prickling things that make even a well-shod
man hesitate before treading on them. They
.bn 277.png
.pn +1
were a tall and powerful set of men, all armed with
old flint-lock muskets of ancient pattern; doubtless
some of them had been used in the first war between
the States and England. We finally arrived and
were ready for business. The compound, or slave
corral, was an immense enclosure completely out
of sight from the beach, and away from the prying
eyes of any cruiser that might be prowling along
the coast. Felado Cortelli, the half-breed Italian
slaver, whose presence had cursed the West African
coast for years, was in charge, and he came forth to
meet us. Our lack of arms seemed to give him
amusement, but when he heard how we had been
rolled over in the surf, he laughed loudly.
Within two hours from the time we left the surf,
our arrangements had been made, and we were leading
between two and three hundred blacks to the
beach, where payment was to be made, and they
were to be shipped aboard, Cortelli’s own guard
of coast pirates making the escort for the unfortunates.
Our boat came alongside with its first load of
human freight. Hicks and Curtis stood at the quarter-rail
watching the creatures, and for the first time
in many days seemed on speaking terms. They
appeared to comment upon a girl who was crying
and sobbing bitterly, and who was shackled to a
huge buck, who sat stolidly gazing out to sea.
.bn 278.png
.pn +1
The oily swell rocked the boat but little; the
barque, however, rolled lazily like a huge log, swinging
her long spars slowly from side to side, and the
momentum of each swing hove her down until her
channels brought up with a smacking jar upon the
surface.
This made it necessary for the boatman to use
some caution, for, if the small boat’s gunwale caught
anywhere upon the vessel’s side while she was on
her downward swing, it would instantly be forced
under and the craft upset.
Cortelli stood at the break of the poop, talking
to the trader, and, as the girl was told to make
ready for a spring aboard, he looked over the side
and grinned. The poor creature was frightened
and shrank back, delaying the unloading.
“Stir her up,” said the Guinea to one of his
bullies.
A black pirate laid the lash, and she screamed.
“Hold on there!” cried Hicks, leaning over the
side. “If you do that again, I’ll pistol you.”
His face was flushed, and his hand sought his
broad leather belt, where hung his cutlass and long-barrelled
pistol belonging to the barque’s supply.
“Sho, man, what’s the matter?” asked Yankee
Dan, and the Guinea scowled savagely.
“Dis gal free,” said the big buck, standing up,
as he heard the conversation. “He no right to take
.bn 279.png
.pn +1
her--nor me. I Begna Sam, no slave. Lib right
ashore till you come. Den he cotch us both, an’
say we slave ’cause long sailor, Shannon, he say
he buy us.”
Cortelli grinned. It was not the first time he
had practised this trick, and, if the blacks had no
friends strong enough to protest, they invariably
went with the rest of the cargo.
“Where are the girl’s people?” asked Hicks.
“What difference does it make?” asked Yankee
Dan. “I see no difference whether they’re ashore
here or back in the timber, do you?”
Mr. Curtis nodded encouragingly. It was evident
he had no scruples how or where the girl had been
kidnapped.
The Guinea, Cortelli, shrugged his fat shoulders,
and shot a venomous look at the Englishman.
“Shall I find out where each black resides when
at home?” he asked, sarcastically. Then he turned
away.
Hicks, instead of following him, leaned over the
rail. A strange look of sadness came into his eyes.
He was a hard men among hard men, and he had
revolted at the squeal of a black woman. I watched
him a moment, and looked to see something more
happen.
He evidently saw that to send the girl ashore
meant to doom her to Cortelli’s will. There was
.bn 280.png
.pn +1
only one way, and, as she stepped on deck with the
big buck, Sam, he went to him and asked about the
girl’s people. She was being separated from her
old mother and crippled sister, neither of whom
were of any value as slaves. Begna Sam was
hustled below with the rest, and Hicks went back
on the poop.
“Bring her mother and sister aboard,” said he
to Cortelli. “I’ll give you full price for both.”
The little fat scoundrel glanced at him quickly
to see if he were in earnest. Hicks looked him
squarely in the eyes and repeated his request. Then
the Guinea went to the rail and said something to
the black bullies in the small boat that made them
grin, and the next boat brought off the desired pair.
Hicks had a separate place made for the three near
the open hatchway, and afterward paid for them
from his own pocket. Then he went aft, followed
by the smiles and winks of half the starboard watch,
and even Hawkson, who came to the edge of the
poop, could scarce suppress amusement. An exhibition
of human feeling appeared very strange to
the men of The Gentle Hand.
All that day we made landings in the heavy surf,
taking a few shackled blacks aboard at a time, being
aided a little by the filthy and indolent denizens
of the ruinous village, who came to the shore and
squatted around under the trees to give comment
.bn 281.png
.pn +1
upon the affair. They were good surfmen, and
sometimes helped to run out the boats when promised
a drink of rum. They were all half-breed
Guineas and scum from the slaving-ships, but some
had skins as black as the negro slaves they were
watching. Cortelli appeared to be the chief among
them, and it was said he sometimes seized upon
some of the blackest and sold them. They gave
him a wide berth as he strode among them, and
jumped at each word he uttered, no despot creating
greater awe among his subjects than this filthy
little fat rascal, whose black eyes had pointed the
way to death or worse to so many unfortunates of
that inhospitable region.
It was dark before the last boat-load had been
stowed below hatches, for several boats had capsized
in the surf, and the delay of rescuing the
shackled prisoners from drowning had taken much
time. Only three were lost, the pirate guard, which
had contracted to do most of the rowing, proving
the best kind of boatmen, and the way they swam
about in the breakers was a thing to wonder at.
Sharks were swarming about the barque, and must
have been also in the surf, but the black men gave
them little thought.
The final payment was made in good yellow gold
to Cortelli, and he passed over the side into his own
boat, followed by the farewells of the trader, who
.bn 282.png
.pn +1
appeared to feel that he had not been badly cheated
in his purchase. The black bullies rowed the Italian
rapidly shoreward, while that worthy squatted
over his bag of money, which he made fast to a buoy,
in case of accident, and, drawing a long pistol,
cocked back the flint. It was evident that he would
take no chances in that country, where a piece of
yellow metal may be worth several human lives.
The last I saw of him, he was explaining to his
steersman that an accident meant certain death to
him, the steersman, at least, and therefore the utmost
caution should be exercised in going through the
surf. The money could not sink, but he never had
had accidents, and was not going to begin at this
time.
Then the order came from our quarter-deck to
heave short, and we were ready to make the desperate
run for the other side. Hawkson had kept
a boat going all day between the ship and shore,
taking in fresh water, and our stores were in good
condition. We had taken in enough for an army
at Funchal.
“Lay forrads, all ye starbowlins,” bawled Henry,
“an’ wake her up.” Then the feeling that we were
indeed homeward bound over the middle passage
took a strong hold of us, and we hove heavy on
the windlass brakes.
.bn 283.png
.pn +1
“‘Ole Stormy, ’e was a good ole man,’” piped
a sailor.
“‘Yo, ho! Oh, we storm along,’” bellowed the
watch in chorus, and, with the wild, crazy song,
we walked the anchor in, while the rest sheeted home
the topsails and romped up with the t’gallant-halyards.
In a few minutes the land-breeze bore us off, and
we braced in the yards for a run off the land to
the southward. We would try to go clear of everything,
and then haul up and go across with every
rag we could crack on her.
Bill, Ernest, and myself raced up the main-ratlines
to loose the royal and the topmast stun’sails.
In the dim light of the early evening, I saw the
low shore of the African continent for the last time.
When I finished with the gaskets, I waited a few
moments, watching it fade into the gloom of the
tropic night, and thinking of the hell of sorrow
and suffering the poor creatures bore who were
cursed by birth upon its hot lowlands and stinking
marshes. Even while I looked, the plaintive murmur
from the wretches below hatches told plainly
they knew their voyage to death and slavery had
begun, and I thought I could make out the wild
and sad refrain of some savage song. Over three
hundred black creatures packed below! I thanked
Heaven there had been no more to take, for I knew
.bn 284.png
.pn +1
they would have packed another three hundred into
her if they had been ready for sale. They would
make the run with these without further risk, and
trust to landing them in better condition, thus securing
a much higher price.
I started down the ratlines, but, before going
over the futtock-shrouds, I looked at the last bit
of light on the western sky-line.
It seemed to me I saw a bit of a speck showing
on the darkening horizon. Bill was opposite me,
and I called to him to look. He gazed steady for
a few seconds.
“Youst like a brig’s royals, them little dots,”
said he, and went on down the ratlines to the deck.
I followed, and forgot to report the object in
the hurry and hustle to get the anchor in on deck
and everything shipshape for sea.
.bn 285.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XXXII. | OPEN MUTINY
.sp 2
My! How those blacks did smell! We had
worked well into the night, only stopping to eat
supper, and, when we did go below to turn in, all
tired out, the odour was something to remember.
The wind being aft, the cabin was clear, but the
forecastle was pretty bad, and we had only just
started.
“It makes a fellow feel like goin’ out an’ getting
rid o’ some o’ his crimes,” said Big Jones, sniffing
and spitting upon the deck.
“Hif dirt’s a crime, you’d been hung long ago,”
observed Jim. “Better turn in with hit.”
“Too hot,” said Bill. “It’s youst a little too
hot fer me. I’ve sweated all the water out of me
working, an’ I don’t want to sweat sleepin’. I’ll
take the deck an’ let her go.”
“A man’s ’bout one-third water, anyways, according
to some o’ them doctors’ sayings,” drawled
Shannon, who lounged in his bunk.
“What’s the rest,--likker?” asked Jim, wofully.
.bn 286.png
.pn +1
And then the men split up, each seeking a spot
for resting during his watch below, some on deck
and some in the forecastle.
I followed Bill to the windlass, and we stretched
out in my old favourite spot, with our heads upon
a coil of the forestaysail-downhaul. Here we had
the draught from under the foot of the sail blowing
downward in our faces, and we instantly gave
way to its soothing influence and fell asleep. Since
Watkins had gone over the side, with a shot to
each foot, sewed tightly in canvas, I had been a bit
more free to sleep out on deck at night in the warm
weather, and I now rested as only a tired and healthy
sailor could. The barque held along steadily and
the motion was slight, and there was silence on board
save for the murmur coming from below. The first
thing I knew of trouble was being suddenly aroused
by a piercing scream. It was shrill and sharp and
full of terror and pain.
Bill started up at the same time, and both of
us asked each other what was the matter. I tried
to put out my hand to steady myself from the roll
of the barque and get to my feet, but something
held it firmly to the other in front of me. The
night was intensely black, as the moon had not yet
risen, and for an instant I was blundering about,
striving to free myself, until Bill blurted out that
he was ironed. Then I realized that my hands were
.bn 287.png
.pn +1
shackled fast in iron bracelets, and that there was
little use to try to free them. Some one had slipped
them upon our wrists while we slept, and we were
as helpless as though paralyzed.
I tried to see the watch on deck, and strained
my eyes through the gloom to catch sight of their
forms in the waist, where they usually grouped to
keep awake and tell yarns. There was not a soul
in sight. Even the poop seemed vacant, but, while
I looked, shadows appeared creeping up the gangways
over the break, and in a moment a flash lit the
darkness. Following the report, a perfect roar of
voices burst forth, yelling and bawling, interspersed
now and again with shouts and cries of wounded
men. Then Martin’s hoarse yell arose above the
uproar aft, and I began to realize what was happening.
“Break loose, Bill, for God’s sake,” I cried, tugging
away at my irons. “Break loose, for that
devil, Martin, is going amuck, and Shannon is in
his wake.” Our legs were free, and I ran to the
windlass-bitts, which were covered with metal.
Raising my hands high above my head, I brought
the bracelets down with all my force upon the iron
tops.
The pain was awful. For some moments I could
do nothing but gasp, for it seemed to me that I
.bn 288.png
.pn +1
had broken both my wrists. They were numb and
paralyzed with the shock.
“Let me try,” said Bill, and he brought his hands
down with full force. The lock on his iron sprang
open, and he gave a groan.
“Lay your wrists here,” he said, and I stretched
the connecting link over the bitt-head. Bill seized
a heavy chain-hook and smote again and again
upon the chain link until it bent, buckled, and finally
opened. I was free.
With my irons hanging to my wrists, we started
aft, where the fracas was now in full sway. Forms
were surging upon the break of the poop, and among
them I recognized some of our men mixed with
the naked black bodies of the Africans. We dived
into the forward cabin door to get at the cutlass
rack in the passage, where all the arms were hung.
As we did so, Mr. Curtis thrust a pistol into my
face and pulled the trigger. The damp, hot climate
had evidently affected the priming of the weapon,
for I heard the flint fall distinctly. Then I struck
up the muzzle as it exploded, the charge going upward
into the deck.
“Don’t shoot!” I bawled, as the report rang out.
“Don’t shoot! can’t you see us? Give us the cutlasses,
quick.”
Bill reached for the rack where they hung, and
was about to take one, when a form swung out of
.bn 289.png
.pn +1
the darkness, heaving some heavy weapon overhead.
There was no time to explain matters, so I sprang
upon the fellow and grasped him firmly before the
blow fell upon Bill’s head, and together we went
to the deck.
Instantly I recognized Jorg, the carpenter, as his
axe fell clattering across the cabin, and the rascal
gripped my throat with both hands. Before I could
disengage his hands, two more bodies fell over me,
scrambling, cursing, and struggling. A foot--I
think it was Bill’s--gave Jorg a kick under the
ear, and he slackened his hold on my throat.
“What the mischief are you doing?” I gasped.
“Can’t you see we ain’t niggers? What’s the matter
with you?”
Just then a lantern flashed, as the cabin door was
thrown open, and Mr. Gull stood before us, pike in
hand, ready for business. He seemed to hesitate
a moment, and looked inquiringly at me and then
at Bill, who had Curtis under him on the cabin
deck, calling upon him to let him get away, and trying
to disengage the Englishman’s hands, that had
fastened themselves firmly around his neck. The
noise overhead continued, and the rapid trampling
of men and shuffling of feet told of a fierce encounter.
Hawkson’s hoarse cry could be distinguished
cheering the men on about him, and Martin’s wild
yells and curses upon the ship, the crew, and everything
.bn 290.png
.pn +1
about her. It was evident something worse
than a rising of the blacks was taking place, and
I hurriedly asked the second mate what had happened.
He saw the manacles upon my wrists, where
they still hung, and this showed him I had been
a captive very recently. Then we knew the after-guard
had taken no prisoners and would never give
quarter.
“Put on in my sleep,” I said, quickly. “Bill
and I both were ironed. Give us the weapons and
let us help.”
“I believe you, Heywood. Take a cutlass and
come along. The devil is loose to-night aboard
here,” he said, and he grabbed Curtis’s hands at
the same instant.
“Let him go,” he said to Curtis. “Let him go
and get up. They’re all right.”
It was several moments before the Englishman
realized what was wanted, and kept calling for Gull
to run Bill through with his pike.
I grabbed a cutlass from the arm-rack just as
Jorg sat up, dazed and dizzy. He evidently expected
me to cut him down, and was much astonished
when I helped raise him and handed him his
axe.
“You’re youst a little bit too much in a hurry,”
said Bill to Curtis, as they got up, the sailor red
and angry at the choking he had received. But
.bn 291.png
.pn +1
Gull pressed a cutlass into his hand, and called for
us to follow, opening the door into the after-cabin.
There was no time to lose. The incident had already
cost us several minutes, and we might be too late.
“It’s Martin and the fellow Shannon,” said Gull,
as we piled through. “They’ve got half the port
watch an’ a dozen niggers with them. They’re the
fighting devils of Cortelli’s guard shipped in, all
ready to take a hand. Shannon and the Guinea
stood in together to do the job. Come along, for
God’s sake, come along!”
.bn 292.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XXXIII. | THE FIGHT ON DECK
.sp 2
Gull led the way through the cabin, and, as we
neared the companionway, a stateroom door was
thrust open, and Miss Allen stood before us. She
held a pistol in her hand, and her eyes were bright
and sparkling. She seemed most beautiful to me,
as she stood there confronting five armed men.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, “I’m glad it’s you. I
thought--” But she left her sentence unfinished.
We knew what she meant, and the pistol was not
a weapon for offence. It was her last defence, and
the thought of the girl waiting with it in her hand
gave me a turn. We hurried up the ladder while
she called after us, asking if her father was all right.
The blackness on the poop was lit up by Gull’s
lantern, and we saw a sight that made us grip our
weapons. A confused mass of men were closed
in desperate combat, cutting, thrusting, hacking, and
clutching at each other in the darkness. Guided
by Hawkson’s voice, we soon made out the mate,
surrounded by a crowd of the black devils from
.bn 293.png
.pn +1
the beach and several of our own men. By his side
was Hicks and the sailor, Ernest, all hewing away
at the press about them. Several bodies lay beneath
Hawkson’s feet, telling of the old fighter’s desperate
sword-play.
A little farther on, with his back against the
mizzen, stood Howard, his bare poll shining in the
light of Gull’s lantern, showing the perspiration
pouring down over his face, his eyes steady and
shining like glass beads, his cutlass dripping in his
right hand, and an empty pistol in his left. He
was hard at it with Martin and Shannon, both of
whom pressed him sorely, in spite of Yankee Dan’s
help.
Henry was engaging Anderson and Gus at his
side, and the forms of two men lying between the
old captain and Martin told of the Scot’s and Shannon’s
deadly work. Shannon had cut down one
and Martin had put a man out of the way as we
rushed up.
The fight now waxed hotter. The barque, being
without any one at the wheel, luffed slowly into
the breeze until her foreyards were aback and she
gathered sternway. The cracking of the slatting
canvas added to the noise of the yelling men, and
for a time there was chaos on the poop.
Instinctively Gull and myself rushed to Howard’s
side. The old fellow was wary and quick, warding
.bn 294.png
.pn +1
off the furious onslaughts of the long skipper with
a skill and strength that was amazing. He had his
old cutlass ahead of him, sword fashion, and he
hopped about that deck like some horrible old
monkey, laughing now and again in his high, cackling
voice, as he lunged and stabbed with a catlike
quickness. Even the long skipper’s giant
strength was powerless to force his guard for a
few moments, but, as we fell upon the long rascal,
we were met by Martin, who came in furiously,
yelling like a demon.
“Hoot, ye dogs! Stand out an’ die! Stand out
an’ die like true Christian men!” he bawled, and
as he did so he struck fiercely with a cutlass.
Jennings, Pat, and Holmberg had gone against
us, and I caught a glimpse of them in the crush
about Hawkson, as I circled about Shannon, trying
to get within his guard, while he made long, full-arm
sweeps as he advanced that kept us busy getting
out of his way. Only Howard seemed to be able
to stand and yet clear them.
Curtis, Jorg, and Bill had fallen upon the crowd
pressing about the mate, and now some of the black
pirates left the press there and came to Shannon’s
aid. One of these sprang within the guard of the
trader and smote him heavily. Then he dodged
back again as Gull pressed him, cutting him again
and again with lightning-like strokes, his cutlass-blade
.bn 295.png
.pn +1
glinting like a flash of flame in the light of
the lantern set upon the companion slide.
Shannon came steadily on. Yankee Dan reeled
and struck out wildly. A pistol flashed somewhere
in the night, and he pitched forward under the long
man’s feet.
Everything now was mixed. A grinning black
face showed before me, and I cut at it with all my
power. A hoarse scream from the Doctor told me
that the blow had hit hard, although there seemed
little resistance to the blade. The rascally cook had
evidently joined the mutiny, and had gotten his
deserts. At the same time I did not stop to argue
the question of right or wrong. I had been gulled
into joining the ship, and had no reason to love her
or her officers, yet, when it came to standing by
her, there was no thought of shirking.
Had Martin been a different kind of a rascal, he
might have approached me, but he had judged
rightly that I had no use for him as a leader, and
he had ironed me for future consideration, not wishing
to part with any more men than necessary on the
short-handed ship. He might have knifed me and
tossed me over the side just as easily.
The death of Yankee Dan appeared to madden
Martin. He roared and cursed and swung a vicious
stroke at Gull. Then seeing me, his rage broke
forth in a torrent of oaths. He made a cut at me
.bn 296.png
.pn +1
and missed. I stabbed him savagely in the ribs,
my point hitting him hard, for I had to jerk it clear.
He roared and rushed in upon me, followed by
Shannon, and I was beaten backward to the poop-rail.
In vain did Howard and Gull cut and lunge
at the long villain. Shannon beat their weapons
down, and came upon me, with the wounded Scot
at his side, now silent with pain and with the weakness
of his hurt. I fought with despairing energy,
but received a blow on my shoulder that almost
made me drop my cutlass. The long villain took
a stride nearer to me, and Martin stabbed me in
the leg, as I frantically drove his point downward
from my breast. I was hard pressed, and for an
instant it seemed that I could not escape. The rail
struck me in the small of the back, and I brought
up against it. I had reached the limit. Then Bill
did a thing that makes me believe in the honesty
and nobility of men. It was not what might have
been expected from a member of that crew, but
it was more than even the duty of a friend, and
we had once fought against each other.
Gull smote Jennings so sorely that he fell back
and opened the way to Martin. Like a flash the
second mate sprang in just as the wounded, but still
wary, Scot stabbed me, and he struck him so savagely
that he went staggering to one side. Pat and
a black fellow pressed Howard, and Shannon
.bn 297.png
.pn +1
whirled up his blade to make a finish of me when
Bill sprang between and closed.
Howard thrust the Irishman through the body,
and, as his cackling laugh broke out, the fellow fell
heavily, striking Shannon’s legs behind at the knee
joints. The impact of Bill in front brought all three
to the deck, where they rolled into a struggling,
kicking mass in the darkness.
As quickly as possible, Gull and myself sprang
in to finish the long skipper before Bill was done
for, but it was too late. The tall scoundrel arose
almost instantly to his feet and sprang clear of our
thrusts, leaving Bill lying stark dead upon the deck.
He had died to save me, poor sailorman though he
was, and, as I stepped over his bleeding body, I
could hardly repress a sob that rose in my throat.
John, Gilbert, Anderson, and Heligoland, with six
of Cortelli’s black scoundrels, had by this time
pressed Hawkson, Ernest, and Hicks so hard that
even the aid of Curtis and Jorg availed them but
little. In the general mix-up, the carpenter had
received a blow over the head with a dull cutlass,
which had rendered him insane for a time. I saw
him rushing forward, screaming, but gave him no
other thought, while I went for Shannon, determined
to avenge poor Bill.
Nearly every one had received several wounds
by this time, as the fighting had been close and
.bn 298.png
.pn +1
furious, but Shannon appeared to brighten up and
go in for a finish. He had fought silently up to
the present moment, but now he began to drawl
out his oaths viciously at each stroke of his cutlass.
“I’ll have ye in a minute, ye long caterman,”
cried Howard, pressing upon him.
“I wanter know, I wanter know, you bald-headed
thief!” he roared in reply, and he mixed things
up so fast that his blade shone like a thousand gems
in the dim light of the lantern. Anderson came
to Martin’s aid and supported him, while the badly
wounded, still undaunted, Scot bawled feebly
for his enemies to come on. He seized the rail
with his left hand, and still showed the point of
his cutlass ready for business.
During this last rally, I had noticed the uproar
below sounding like the surf on the shore. I thought
it was caused by the slaves in their fear, hearing
the sounds of the desperate fight on the deck above.
Suddenly the uproar swelled louder, and distinct
cries came from the main-deck. Forms flitted here
and there and came bounding upon the poop.
I saw Hawkson make a desperate rally and cut
down John and a black giant, and, as they fell,
Henry rushed in and finished them. Curtis fell,
badly wounded, but Hicks and Ernest drove the
crowd back. Again and again did Gull, Howard,
.bn 299.png
.pn +1
and myself press Shannon, but the long fellow, while
not able to make any way against us, placed his
back to the poop-rail, and kept us a sword-length
away with ease.
Martin, Shannon, Anderson, and their followers
now crowded aft along the rail, and we were unable
to stop them. Hawkson swung clear of the press
about him, and Hicks followed.
At that instant a surging crowd of black forms
came pouring up the poop-ladders. They were naked
and unarmed, save for whatever bars and belaying-pins
they had found in the darkness.
“Good God, the cargo’s loose!” cried Henry.
“Get aft, it’s the only chance.”
.bn 300.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XXXIV. | THE CARGO BREAKS LOOSE
.sp 2
The pouring torrent of black men flowed and
swept between the mutineers and ourselves, and
we were borne along before them like a chip on the
crest of a wave. Their wild cries sounded above
the curses and yells of the fighting men, blending
into a wild, hoarse roar from three hundred deep
chests. By sticking close together, we managed to
make a retreat to the after-companionway, but it
was desperate work.
The Africans hurled their naked bodies upon our
weapons, regardless of cuts and thrusts that went
home every time, and they struck at us savagely
with the bars and staves they had collected.
Mr. Gull received a blow that stretched him senseless,
and it was only after a desperate stand that
we managed to haul him out from under the struggling
men who pitched upon him. Curtis, being
badly wounded, could not keep with us, and he was
pulled back into the crowd and never seen again.
Ernest, who bore himself so bravely, fell at the
.bn 301.png
.pn +1
companion, and it was Hawkson who tore his way
into a mass of mad blacks and hauled him over
the ladder.
There were only a few of us left. Hawkson,
Hicks, Henry, Howard, and myself could do duty,
but we were all badly wounded.
The light from the cabin below shone in our
faces, and we set our backs to the opening. I saw
Howard’s eyes shining from his mask-like face like
two bright, black beads. Blood poured down Hawkson’s
cheeks from a cut on the forehead, and made
him a grisly sight. Hicks was white as a sheet,
but cool and steady. He had received a thrust in
the breast that made him wheeze at each breath.
We made one desperate rally at the companion,
and I looked below over my shoulder. As I did
so, I saw a form staggering in from forward, and
heard the clank of the heavy door in the bulkhead.
I looked again, and saw Big Jones coming, with a
pair of broken irons on each wrist, and a pistol in
his left hand, while in his right he carried a shining
cutlass.
“Stand clear, I’m a-comin’,” he said, and we
made way for him as he mounted the steps.
The light on the top of the companion, where
Gull had placed it, still burned. The slaves swarmed
everywhere, except on the glass skylight.
By the dim flare, I could see what was taking
.bn 302.png
.pn +1
place. Shannon had been carried along the port
rail to the after end of the poop, and Martin had
thrust with all his remaining strength, hobbling
along, aided by Anderson. Over the heads of the
black crowd, I could make out Shannon’s tall form,
as he cut and slashed right and left, making a lane
through the men, and leaving a pile of bodies to
mark his course and ease the pressure upon him.
“Coom on, ye black divils!” cried Martin,
faintly. “Coom on, an’ take the sailormen.”
A huge black towered above him, wielding a
hand-spike, and several more pressed Anderson back.
The Scotchman rose to his full height, and, seizing
his cutlass in both hands, smote the African
a blow that sank the blade down to his nose. Before
he could wrench it clear, the fellow went headlong
to the deck, carrying the blade with him, snapping
it free from the hilt, and leaving Martin helpless.
The mob surged upon him and he disappeared.
We saw him no more.
Anderson had a similar fate. A dozen giants in
ebony grasped his cutlass in their hands, regardless
of the blade. It was wrenched from him, and he
went down, followed by a dago named Guinea and
a couple of the blacks from the slave-pen. Gus,
Gilbert, and the rest of the mutineers had disappeared
already, leaving only one black and Shannon
of the entire crowd.
.bn 303.png
.pn +1
The African, fighting against his fellows, lasted
but a few moments. He was crowded to the rail.
Throwing his cutlass into the mob, he sprang clear
of the side and was gone in the darkness, and Shannon
was left alone at the taffrail, where he made his
last stand.
A great black fellow made his way aft, calling
out in a clear, deep bass voice. He was apparently
entirely naked, and his skin shone and glistened in
the lantern’s light. He carried a cutlass in his hand,
and thrust his followers aside, as he made his way
to the long skipper, who fought gamely on.
“Ho! Benga Sam, I wanter know,” cried the
sailor. And the black giant called out something
in his clear tones.
It was evident that there was a score to settle,
for the black man hurled his kind right and left
to get in. Some of the nearest drew back at the
sound of his deep voice, and pressed back the heavy
weight of the mob behind, clearing a small space
in front of Shannon. Into this the black giant
forced his way.
All this happened in an incredibly short time,
but the solid bank of human flesh before us was
pressing closer, in spite of Hawkson’s desperate
efforts.
Big Jones reached us, and, placing his pistol at
the breast of the nearest African, fired. Then he
.bn 304.png
.pn +1
whirled his blade into the thick of them, and all
together we forced a space clear about the companion.
Howard was nearly spent. I was desperately
wounded, and leaned against the companion,
panting for breath, while Hicks grasped the
coaming to keep from falling.
In the breathing spell, while Jones held the way,
I saw what was taking place a few feet distant.
In the open space cleared around the long skipper,
the big black fellow stood and called upon the
white man to pay the penalty of some past crime.
Shannon had been on the coast before, and he certainly
recognized the black. He had doubtless done
him some wrong. He met him with a spirit worthy
of a white man, and, in spite of his sins, he made
a gallant stand to the end.
The black set upon him with terrific force, his
blade rising and falling so fast that the eye could
hardly follow it. Shannon, drawing himself to
his full height, parried and returned stroke for
stroke, his amazing vigour unimpaired by the action
of the past half-hour. There was no retreating for
either. The black wall of human bodies held them
on all sides to the taffrail, and the nearest living
men strained their utmost to keep clear of the whirling
blades, while those behind pressed in and forced
them closer.
Both men were desperately wounded in a few
.bn 305.png
.pn +1
moments. Then Shannon, seeming to feel that his
life was ebbing, rose to one mighty effort.
He slashed with great vigour for some moments,
and then, without warning, sprang furiously forward,
and, taking the black’s blade through the body,
he drove his own into his black chest until I saw
the glint of the metal in the rear. They swayed
for a few seconds, and then went down, while the
mob surged over them and flowed around to where
we were holding the stairs.
“Get below and shut the doors,” said Jones. “I
ken hold them fer a few minutes, that’s all.”
Hawkson looked at him, and I saw a ghost of
an old smile flitting over his hard-lined face.
“You’ll do for a big one, Jones,” said he, and
his teeth gleamed in the night.
“You stand on either side,” said Howard. “I’ll
take the front.”
Hawkson was about to remonstrate, but the old
pirate shut him off harshly.
“Who’s the captain here, me or you?” he cried.
“You, but you won’t be within five minutes,”
said Hawkson.
“Get below, Hicks and Heywood; maybe you
can bring Gull and Ernest back for short stand.
There’s liquor in the pantry.”
We were too badly hurt to stand much longer,
.bn 306.png
.pn +1
and were worthless in a rush, so we went down
the companion and tried to tie up our hurts.
Miss Allen had already brought Gull around, and
had partly revived Ernest. She smiled faintly at
me, as I came down the companionway, limping and
clutching the rail at the side. Hicks was behind
me, and looked sadly at the girl as the noise of
the rush sounded behind us.
She came to us and tied us up the best she could,
stopping the bleeding, and, as she handed me a glass
of spirits, spoke.
“Hicks,” said I, “you better take Miss Allen
below into the lazarette and bar the door. They
may overlook you there. It will only be a matter
of a few minutes’ more fighting. The barque is
doomed. Go while you can, for there is no other
to take her. Gull and I must make our last stand
on deck.”
“And a precious short one at that,” said the
second mate, who was barely able to keep his feet.
The liquor was burning within me now like oil
poured upon a dying flame, and under its influence
I grasped my cutlass and placed my foot on the stair,
to mount again and join the panting, struggling
men, whose backs showed against the opening now
and then, as they cut and lunged at the press before
them. They could not last long, and I could already
.bn 307.png
.pn +1
hear the high, rasping breathing of the old captain,
who was making his last fight.
“You will come also,” said Miss Allen to me.
“You must know of some way to hide in a ship.”
Her eyes held a mute appeal that was hard to
resist. She was filled with horror, and the terror
in her look made me hesitate. Yet, when I thought,
I knew Hicks could find a place easier than I, and
one would be less apt to be missed than two. Besides,
the men on deck were fighting, and my place
was there as long as I could stand. Sir John Hicks
looked at me, but said nothing.
“I’ll come later,” I answered. “Some one must
hold the stair. Hurry while there’s time.”
Then I mounted the companion, followed by Gull,
and came out into the last fight on the quarter-deck.
.bn 308.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XXXV. | OUR LAST CHANCE
.sp 2
The big Welshman, Jones, had just swung into
the press about him as we came up, and Hawkson
had a breathing spell for a few moments. The old
privateersman saw me behind him in the doorway,
and the ghost of his old smile wrinkled the corners
of his ugly mouth. He was covered with blood,
and growing weak from exertion, but he held out
a long, sinewy hand, and I grasped it. He said
nothing, but looked at the surging crowd that was
pressing closer and closer against the struggling
Welshman and Howard. Henry clung to the companion
coaming with one hand, and closed the gap
between them. The black mass swung back toward
us, and instantly we were fighting desperately to
hold them in check.
A pile of black bodies in front impeded their
movement, but they pressed us so close that we
were jammed shoulder to shoulder, with Jones
slightly in advance to the right, and the old captain
.bn 309.png
.pn +1
in front. Gull ducked below my arm, and stabbed
viciously upward at the Africans who came on.
There had been a short pause, caused by Jones’s
fierce fight, but, as he gradually slackened his efforts,
and the men behind pressed forward, the gap began
closing up. It would soon be over.
A huge black fellow reached out and grasped
Captain Howard. The old pirate ran him through
the body with marvellous quickness, but, before he
could disengage his weapon, several more seized
him and jerked him away from us. He disappeared
in the blackness, and we saw him no more. He
had gone to his account without a word, fighting
desperately to the last, and with him went the last
hope we had left.
Hawkson was tiring. A couple of men seized
me and started to drag me out, but the old privateersman
made a last desperate rally, and I tore
myself free from dying clutches. But the fight
could not last for ever. A black giant, who wore
a gee-string, smote Hawkson’s blade a terrific blow
with a windlass-brake, knocking it out of his hand.
Instantly several seized him, and, though I cut and
stabbed frantically, they managed to pull him away,
to be served as had been the others who had fallen
into their hands.
Suddenly, while I cut wildly at the forms in front,
some one pulled me backwards. I expected to find
.bn 310.png
.pn +1
myself in the hands of the black tigers, thirsting for
blood and revenge, and was about to make one
last sweep, but my arm was seized, and I was pulled
down the companionway, while Jones slammed the
doors together and bolted them. The big sailor and
myself were all the men left on deck of our after-guard,
and he had pulled me back just in time. The
door would stand a few minutes against the assault.
Gull and Henry had both gone, the little ferret-faced
fellow fastening his great fingers firmly in the throat
of a man who drew him to his death. There was
now no hope but to delay the inevitable for as many
minutes as possible.
Jones and I had a short breathing spell, while
bars and handspikes crashed through the heavy
door panels. We took down several of the muskets
from the racks, and, placing their muzzles against
the rents in the wood, fired them one after the other,
with the result of abating the zeal of the fellows who
stood close against the other side. The room filled
with the dense powder smoke, and the light from
the swinging cabin lamps barely lit up the gloom
enough to distinguish objects. Ernest, who had
been left half-dead upon the cabin floor, now aroused
himself enough to stagger to his feet.
“The lazarette,” he gasped; “it’s our only
chance. Bring some muskets and ammunition. We
can make a stand there.”
.bn 311.png
.pn +1
Grasping an armful of the discharged weapons, I
led the way through a small door in the after-bulkhead,
as heavy blows crashed upon the door of the
forward cabin. Jones followed with an armful of
cartridges and a priming-flask, Ernest leaning heavily
upon him. Then I hesitated.
“Put out the light. Let ’em think we’re waitin’
in the dark,” said the big sailor.
I turned back and took the lamp out of the
bracket. It would serve to light the black hole we
were entering, for Hicks had taken no lantern with
him, being hardly able to walk, with weakness from
wounds and exertion.
Jones went ahead with Ernest, and I looked
quickly about the cabin for some means of preventing
entrance through the small, low door into the
stern of the boat. Nothing appeared handy, and I
turned to follow.
At that same instant the attack upon the companion
was resumed and the doors crashed in, letting
several black forms come plunging down the
steps.
There was no time to lose, so, quickly entering
the hole, I closed it and set the lamp close by on
the deck, where its dim rays would light the entrance
when the door would be burst in. The bulkhead
was not very thick, and it would take very few
minutes to smash the small door, but, as the passage
.bn 312.png
.pn +1
was only about three feet wide, two able men
with muskets and cutlasses could make it good from
the inside, for no matter what the press beyond,
the Africans would have to come in twos and threes
through the opening. They would not think to
cut a new way through, and, as long as they came
in front, we could pile them up as fast as they could
pull the dead and disabled away.
Jones had disappeared into the blackness farther
aft under the cockpit as I entered, but the sound
of the yelling blacks entering the cabin brought him
back to my side, and I motioned him to stand to
starboard, while I took the port side, our cutlass
blades a little more than overlapping as we held
them ready for the rush.
On all sides the ship’s stores were piled and stored
close up under the low deck. Spare canvas rolled
and stopped in long bundles lined the passageway,
placed near at hand that in case of emergency they
could be brought out quickly and bent to stripped
spars. We stood perfectly quiet, while the din below
increased, but, as the savages had no light, they
could not, at first, find the small door in the after-bulkhead.
While we waited, Hicks appeared, stooping and
coming along under the low beams. He had a
musket in each hand which he had loaded, and when
he saw us he stopped. Laying down the guns, he
.bn 313.png
.pn +1
began pulling at an old topsail, and Jones, seeing
what he wanted, hastened to help. Together they
rolled and dragged the canvas to the door, piling
it up to close the opening as much as possible, and
at the same time serve as a breastwork. Suddenly
a savage voice howled close against the bulkhead,
and instantly a rain of tremendous blows fell upon
the door. It splintered, broke, and was torn away
in an instant. Then the black bodies crowded in.
Jones on one side and myself on the other fell
upon them with our cutlasses, and the first three
lay groaning and blocking the way. Hicks crouched
down behind the pile of topsail and rested his
musket, with its muzzle about three feet from the
opening, but held his fire. He would wait until
one of us failed to stop our men.
The three bodies were whisked away, and a half-score
of black faces, with white eyeballs and ivory
teeth, filled the gap, each savage trying to get in
at once, none flinching in the least from the sword
cuts. Capstan-bars, muskets, and cutlasses were
shoved through, and we had to keep alert to prevent
being wounded. One huge negro, with a woolly
beard on his black chin, pulled a couple of his fellows
back from the opening, and thrust a long muscular
arm inside, holding a cutlass. He swung it
with marvellous quickness, and parried my stroke,
giving me a bad cut in return, but Jones reached him
.bn 314.png
.pn +1
with a short-arm thrust, and, before he could recover,
I had him out of action. He was jerked
back before we could get hold of his weapon, and
others took his place.
It was a nightmare scene there in between the
decks of the old pirate barque. I could sometimes
catch a glimpse of Sir John Hicks lying in the bight
of the old topsail, with his eyes looking steadily
along the barrel of the musket and shining like
beads in the dim light. He was good for one fellow,--the
one we would miss. Opposite me the big
sailor slashed and cut at everything that came
through the opening, while just without the black
bodies crowded, and hideous black faces grinned
and yelled in savage fury.
Another rush, and then another, and Jones received
a stab from a cutlass thrust suddenly in at
the door. Three armed negroes tried to enter at
once, and almost succeeded. I stopped one, but
Jones’s man came through, and another started to
follow. Then the musket crashed in the passage,
and we were choked with smoke. But Hicks had
stopped the leader, and Jones then finished the
other. We still held our own.
Suddenly the faces and forms drew back from
the opening. A wild yelling was heard on deck,
followed by a scrambling up the companion. Some
.bn 315.png
.pn +1
noises sounded at the doors, pounding and hammering.
We drew back and waited.
The minutes passed slowly. Hicks placed his
spare gun in position, and coolly proceeded to load
on the stores packed behind us. All was black and
quiet now in the cabin, save for the hammering at
the doors.
In a little while I began to get nervous. The
yelling had begun to die away, and only now and
then voices sounded forward.
“I reckon I’ll take a peep into the cabin,” I said.
“Bring the lamp, and stand for a rush if there are
any tricks played.”
Jones took the light, and, standing just inside
the hole, let the rays fall upon the cabin-deck. It
was apparently deserted. Poking my cutlass ahead
of me, ready for a surprise, I made my way slowly
through the opening, keeping my eyes on both sides
as I came through. The cabin was empty.
I looked up at the companion entrance, and, as
my eyes became accustomed to the gloom, I saw the
doors were closed. The forward doors also had
been put in place, and the hammering had now
ceased. I distinctly heard the rattle of blocks with
the tackle running rapidly.
“No one here,” I whispered, and Jones came
through the bulkhead. Presently Hicks followed.
.bn 316.png
.pn +1
“Better leave the light inside,” he suggested.
“They may have some trick to get us out.”
Jones sniffed the air loudly for a few moments.
“What’s the matter?” asked Sir John.
“Seems to me they’ve already played it,” said
Jones, coolly. “I smell smoke, an’ I smell it strong.”
“Powder smoke, man; the place is thick with
it,” I said, choking and coughing a little.
Jones turned his great face toward me.
“You may be the gunner, Mr. Heywood, you
might know,” said he, “but I smells wood. There
ain’t no mistake. The barque’s on fire, an’ they’ve
nailed us below.”
.bn 317.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XXXVI. | THE END OF THE BLACK BARQUE
.sp 2
“For God’s sake bring the light,” said Hicks.
Jones did so, and, as its rays lit up the cabin,
we saw that the smoke was thicker than when we
first stopped firing. The peculiar pungent odour of
burning tar and wood now became apparent.
The noise on deck had almost ceased entirely,
but, as we listened, there broke upon our ears the
dull boom of a heavy gun.
We looked at each other. Then it sounded again,
and a loud crash above told of a shot tearing through
our hull, while the dull report was repeated.
“Man-o’-war,” said Jones, significantly.
“Break down the door,” I cried. “We must get
Miss Allen and Ernest.”
Hicks had already started for the light, and
Jones bounded up the steps, cutting at the panels
as he reached the top, while we hurried back to
the lazarette.
Even as we went, the barque’s deck seemed to
slant a trifle forward, and I wondered at it vaguely,
.bn 318.png
.pn +1
as we made our way along the dark passage under
the cockpit. In a few minutes we had made our
way clear aft to the vessel’s run. Here, behind
boxes and barrels of stores, that Hicks had broken
out and formed into a barricade, was Miss Allen.
She greeted us calmly, but I could see the terror
in the girl’s eyes that the horror of the night had
produced.
“I expected you,” she said, her voice trembling.
Hicks looked at her sadly, and held out his hand.
“Come,” he said, “we haven’t a minute to spare.
Where’s Ernest?”
“Here, sir,” said the sailor, rising from the deck.
He was badly hurt, and could hardly stand.
“Take a grip of my shoulder,” I said, “and
hurry along. We must get out of this.”
Even as we went, the deck began sloping forward.
The incline was getting greater all the time, as
though the barque was settling by the head. By
the time we reached the cabin, she had listed to
starboard, and Jones, who was cutting away at the
shattered companion doors, broke through just as
the steps or ladder, torn from its fastenings by the
rush upon it when the savages came below, fell to
one side and crashed down upon the floor, bringing
the big sailor with it. We tried to place it back
again in position, but, while we lifted it, the deck
began to slant dangerously. A flickering light shone
.bn 319.png
.pn +1
down through the opening Jones had made in the
barricade, and, as he staggered to his feet, he called
out that it was no use.
“She’s listed too much. It won’t stand. She’s
all afire forrads, and goin’ down by the head. The
devils have plugged her, too, an’ she’s fillin’ like a
basket! Put it on the starboard side, an’ I’ll hold
it while ye mount.”
We tried this method, but it wobbled so that Jones
was sent up first to hold the top.
The barque was now sinking rapidly. The blacks
had evidently cut a hole in her, besides setting her
afire, to make sure of catching us below. She was
to be our coffin,--a fitting end for men engaged
in the foul trade. Jorg must have gone forward
with his axe, mad with the blow he had received
from Shannon’s men, and, after he had liberated
some slaves by knocking the irons off, they had
evidently overpowered him, taken his axe, and cut
a hole in the vessel’s bottom, while the mass of them
had surged aft for vengeance.
It took several precious moments to clear the
barricade above sufficiently for a man to get out.
Jones tore and pried at the shattered woodwork,
but the negroes had piled a lot of gratings, lines,
etc., over the opening, after fastening the doors by
spiking some of their bunk-boards or slave-deck
timber over the shattered panels.
.bn 320.png
.pn +1
They had intended to make certain of us before
leaving in the small boats.
Gradually Jones forced his way out, while the
noise of the escaping air under the sinking deck
grew into a deep snore, rushing as it did through
every aperture, while the sea followed after.
Quickly we passed Miss Allen up, while we felt
the ship settling. Then Ernest was lifted until
Jones could reach his hand and get him out. Then
the big sailor disappeared a moment from the opening,
and we knew he had taken the girl to safety,
if such a thing existed near. The listing motion
increased rapidly. There was a loud roaring below.
Hicks seized the ladder, while I held the foot
of it to keep it from sliding to starboard. Then he
turned.
“After you, Heywood,” he said, quickly. “Jump,
there’s no time to lose.”
“Go!” I yelled; “go while you may. She’s
going down now.”
But he turned his face to me, and for an instant
I saw its expression in the dim light of the lamp
still burning on the floor. There was no sign of
fear in it. Only a deep sadness, as in one who
has suffered a sudden great loss.
“After you,” he said, calmly, and made a motion
with his hand toward the sloping steps. There was
something of an old-time courtesy in that gesture
.bn 321.png
.pn +1
that told of men who had gone before. They who
had borne the name he had disgraced. Bad man
he may have been, but who shall judge him after
that gallant end?
I saw that argument would be useless, even had
there been time for it. Seizing the steps, I mounted
as quickly as I could, while I felt them slide beneath
me. I grasped the coamings as the steps left my
feet and fell away to starboard, leaving me hanging.
In a moment I had thrown a leg over the edge
of the opening, and drew myself panting and gasping
to the poop. Jones was just in the act of disappearing
over the rail, having lowered Miss Allen
and Ernest overboard to a couple of planks and
gratings he had hove in. I called to him for aid
to help me get Hicks out, but it was just too late.
The barque was now almost perpendicular, pointing
bow forward to the bottom. As I staggered
to my feet, she gave a sudden lurch. Then straight
as an arrow, she dived, and I found myself in the
roaring, swirling vortex she left behind.
In the choking blackness beneath the ocean’s surface,
I seemed to stay. Down and down I went,
in spite of frantic struggles. Then the suction
ceased, and I began to mount. If I could only hold
my breath a little longer!
A roaring was in my ears, and stars flashed in
.bn 322.png
.pn +1
my eyes, and just when I was losing consciousness,
my head came out into the air again.
How good was that first breath! I was back
again in the world of air for another struggle. It
seemed useless, and I swam slowly, wondering why
I did so, yet my whole nature revolted against going
under. It would only be a matter of minutes, and
why not take the rest of a somewhat hard existence
easy? My reason began to assert itself, and the
uselessness of effort began to be manifest. Turning
over on my back, I floated easily, only striking
out now and then with a spasmodic kick.
Suddenly I heard voices. There were men near,
and I quickly turned over again to try to gaze about
me through the darkness.
Something made a rushing sound through the
water, and, following the swish of the spray, I made
out the regular stroke of oars. For an instant I
thought of the slaves who had taken our boats, and
I had no desire to call for aid. Then it struck me
that the oar-stroke was very regular and could only
come from trained men.
I called loudly, and soon had the satisfaction of
getting an answer. The craft headed toward me,
and in a moment I could make her out coming
head on.
I grasped the gunwale as she came up, and was
hauled inboard by a couple of men.
.bn 323.png
.pn +1
“Here’s another rascal who’d rather hang than
drown,” said one to the other. Then loudly to
the man aft: “We’ve got him, sir.”
I was bundled aft, and made to sit in the bottom
of the craft, which I now saw, by the aid of the
lantern the helmsman had between his feet, to be
a boat from a ship-of-war. The men were in uniform,
and the man at the helm was an officer of the
United States navy.
“How many of you got away in the boats?”
he asked, sternly. “And how did you happen to
be left behind?”
“I reckon I’m the only one left,” I said, sadly.
“None of us escaped except me.”
“A likely yarn,” snapped the officer. “Who are
you, anyway?”
“I’m an American, like yourself, and was gunner
of the barque The Gentle Hand,” I answered.
I thought he would strike me when I said I was
like himself, but he saw I meant no offence.
“Did all the slaves go down in her after you
fired her, when you saw you couldn’t get away from
us?” he asked again.
Then it suddenly dawned upon me that the cruiser
had thought we had burned and scuttled the ship
ourselves, after finding he was closing in and would
soon have her under his guns.
“We didn’t fire her,” I answered. “The blacks
.bn 324.png
.pn +1
did that, and there’s no one left alive of her crew
that I know of besides myself.”
He gave a grunt of disgust, as if it were no use
talking to a rascal, and headed for his vessel’s side.
I could see her lights now only half a mile away,
and I wondered who and what she was, and what
fate she had in store for me.
It looked as if I had made a mistake in leaving
The Gentle Hand, and visions of a figure swaying
at a yard-arm began flitting through my tired brain.
.bn 325.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER XXXVII. | THE LAST STRAND OF MY YARN
.sp 2
When we came alongside the man-of-war, another
small boat had already arrived. Lights were
in the gangway, and forms showed along the rail.
The vessel was a brig-rigged cruiser, not very large,
but, judging from the heaviness of her spars that
towered above in the darkness, she was very fast,
capable of overhauling the majority of traders.
She would not have caught The Gentle Hand in
a breeze of any weight, and, as I gazed at her, I
remembered the sail I had seen before dark, and
to which I had called Bill’s attention while aloft.
This vessel was evidently the one seen but not
reported, and she had probably crept up on us in
the darkness without our knowing it. Then came
the rising forward among the men, planned and
led by Shannon and Martin, who had plotted with
the slave-driver ashore for some of the profits.
They had intended taking the barque in themselves,
selling and landing the cargo somewhere on either
the Cuban or American coast, and then making
.bn 326.png
.pn +1
another trip, or sinking her before being overhauled
and found out. It was a game easily played among
dealers who asked few questions and who paid cost
prices. Clearing would not be difficult to men who
thought nothing of forging papers, and who would
close the mouths of certain officials of the Spanish
ports well known to them by handing over a small
percentage of the profits. How it all ended is now
known, and I seemed to be the sole survivor of
the affair.
We ranged alongside the cruiser, and the order
came to peak oars. How the accurate obedience
of the men and quick, certain movements brought
back memories of the days when I wore the blue
uniform and served frigate’s guns. Then we were
fast, and I was ordered to stand up.
“Now then, up with you,” snapped the officer
aft. “Clap that fellow in irons as he comes aboard,”
he added to the quartermaster, who stood in the
gangway, and who promptly laid a heavy paw upon
my shoulder. I was seized by two sailors and
hustled below without further ado, and when I
arrived in the ’tween-decks, a fellow clapped the
irons upon my wrists.
“Where’ll we put him?” asked one of the sailors
of the master-at-arms, who was superintending operations.
The light from the lanterns shone upon me, and
.bn 327.png
.pn +1
I must have presented a pretty hard spectacle. Several
wounds that I had received had begun to bleed
afresh, and the salt water mixed with the blood,
completely saturating my clothing.
“You look like you had a clip or two, my friend,”
said the master-at-arms to me. “Had a bit of a
fracas, hey?”
The tone was familiar, and I looked hard at the
man. Then, in spite of his clean-shaved face and
uniform, I had no difficulty in recognizing old Peter
Richards, bos’n of The Gentle Hand.
“Well, how in thunder did you get here?” I
asked.
“Didn’t you get my note?” said Richards.
“I did, but am not the scholar you appear to
be. Sink you, Peter, how did you play it on me
so?”
Richards smiled grimly.
“You know,” he said, “when you first signed
with old Watkins, I did not want to go in the barque.
Your gaff set me on, John, and I thought you such
a fool you would get in trouble. I knew what she
was, well enough, but I would have stayed with
her if they had treated me right. But folk in that
business don’t treat people right. The whole game
is one of wrong and oppression,--an’ you know it.
When I left, I knew she was going out the next
day, and tried to tell you, but you had just gone
.bn 328.png
.pn +1
ashore, and when I found you had gone, I went
as far as the place where you had the outfly with
Curtis on account of the gal. I heard of the mess,
an’ got to the long skipper’s boat in time to see
him rowing you back to The Gentle Hand.”
“Did you know what he had in the chest, too?”
I asked.
“No, but I knew he was up to something. I
knew he couldn’t do much with the vessel he had,
and I thought I would come along in your wake in
this brig. We got here too late. Tell me how the
trouble came about.”
I told as much as I could of the rising, and before
I was through, an officer called him aft to give
instructions about me. I knew he would do what
he could, and hoped to have him stand between me
and the end of the gant-line.
While he was gone, a master’s mate came up and
took me in hand.
“What became of the rest of the crew?” he
asked,
“They killed all hands,” I answered, sullenly.
“I’m the only one left.”
“Not exactly,” answered the sailor, kindly. “Not
exactly, my boy. There’s a pretty good lump of a
Welshman and a fairly sized Dutchman already
ahead of you.”
.bn 329.png
.pn +1
“What!” I cried. “Did you pick up Miss Allen
and Big Jones?”
“I haven’t the honour of the gal’s acquaintance,”
said the fellow, “but we’ve got her aboard all right,
and the men with her. Who is the young lady,--the
skipper’s daughter?”
“Daughter of the trader,” I answered, with a
feeling of relief. “Her father was killed with the
rest. So she’s aboard, is she?”
“All safe, but we don’t hang women for piracy,
so I don’t know what the old man’ll do with her.
No, Sam, we won’t put him in the brig,” he said,
addressing one of the men. “It’s too hot, too much
like the hold of a slaver to suit him. I’ve always
noticed these fellows are mighty particular about
themselves. You can stow yourself there in that
hammock to-night, my friend, and here’s some togs
for you,” he continued to me, “and here’s a nip
of grog for you. Stand by for a call to come aft
and be sentenced.”
His tone was kindly, but so cool withal, when
discussing my probable end, that I hated the fellow.
Hadn’t I gone through enough? Must I be goaded
and hung, after all? I changed my dripping clothes,
with the help of a couple of men who loosed my
hands for a few minutes, and then the order was
passed to bring me aft to the captain for examination.
.bn 330.png
.pn +1
Tired and exhausted as I was, I was hustled aft
between two sailors, and brought to the poop, where
sat the captain of the cruiser in a chair. He was
only partly dressed, on account of the heat, and
he smoked a long cigar of the kind rolled in Cuba.
Richards had passed a word for me, and he looked
less dangerous than I expected.
He was an intelligent officer, and, as I told my
story, beginning at the time I was tricked into signing
into the barque, he became interested, and I
could see he believed much I told. While I talked,
Jones was brought up, and, without hearing what
I had already said, corroborated me in all details.
Then we were allowed to go below and turn in, and
for twelve blessed hours I knew nothing. Ernest
was too far gone to talk that night, but the next
day his story was found to be in the main like ours.
As for Miss Allen, she was unable to leave her
room for several days, but when she could tell of
the affair, her testimony did much to save our lives.
We were paroled and given the liberty of the
ship while she cruised to the eastward along the
coast of the Guinea Gulf and Bight of Benin.
Soon I found the cruiser, which proved to be the
Hornet, was looking for a brig commanded by a
fellow named Shannon, who had made a reputation
on the coast for being a most desperate pirate and
slaver. When the bos’n came aboard, they immediately
.bn 331.png
.pn +1
gave chase to the barque. Then I explained
the affair that happened in Funchal, and the encounter
with the brig to the southward of that place.
It was evident from my description of the fellow
that it was the same man they were hunting, and
they finally had enough confidence in my testimony
to bear away again to the westward and start up
the coast.
After two weeks’ cruising under the hot sun,
we raised the topsails of a peculiar-looking craft
that was heading down toward the slave coast. Her
foretopmast was remarkably short, and, as we overhauled
her, I had no difficulty in recognizing Captain
Shannon’s vessel.
She saw us and stood inshore close-hauled, and
when within a mile of the beach, backed her foresail
and waited for us to come up. The brig fired a
shot or two across her, and then called away three
of her boats, which were filled with armed men, to
go in and take possession.
We were to leeward, and the odour that came
down the wind told plainly her occupation. Had
it been night, Brannigan would have dumped the
blacks he had aboard into the sea, for he was capable
of anything, but the sun was shining now, and
it was no use, for he had failed to recognize the
Hornet as a man-of-war until she was close enough
to see any such man[oe]uvre from her tops. There
.bn 332.png
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was nothing to do but either get rid of the cargo,
or get out of his vessel, and, as we could now see
her deck plainly, Brannigan chose the only course
to keep clear of the hangman’s noose. He lowered
down his boats, and, as ours started in for him,
he started for the beach, keeping up a rapid and
well-directed fire from muskets until he struck the
surf. His brig, which had been named the Black
Jewel, after the manner customary among facetious
slave-ship owners, was scuttled where she lay as
soon as the blacks were taken out of her.
As the Hornet had been some time on the coast,
just as soon as she put the slaves ashore, she stood
away for home. We crossed the line, picked up
the northeast trade, and made a straight course for
the States.
I was allowed the freedom of the deck after I
had made known my true rating, and had explained
how I had once served in a war-ship and as first
officer in several others. In this way I had a
chance to meet Miss Allen.
“You are a rough sailorman, are you not, Mr.
Heywood?” she asked one day, as we neared the
Carolina coast.
“I suppose I may be classed as such,” I assented,
“but I’ve held a master’s position once, and been
mate of several ships.”
“Well,” she said, “I must confess that I like
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rough sailormen very much. You know I’ve been
used to the society of gentlemen.”
“Your discernment in choosing acquaintance
does you immense credit, Miss Allen,” I answered.
“I’m sure I feel honoured.”
“I have always associated with men who could
read and write, you know, and who have been to
school. But I do like rough sailormen. They have
much that is interesting about them,” she continued,
calmly, without heeding my interruption.
“There are over a hundred on board this ship,”
I asserted, getting my breath. “Possibly some of
them could sign their names, or, at least, make a
cross-mark opposite them. As for me, I fear so
much learning would be dangerous in so rough a
sailor.”
She flushed, and I saw at once that she had meant
nothing disagreeable. Then she asked me straightway
about Sir John Hicks.
“How was it he did not follow us?” she asked.
“Because he held the ladder for me,” I answered.
“And you let him stay below while you escaped,”
she cried, her eyes flooding scorn and contempt.
“You, a sailor, let him die, and ran to save yourself?”
“Only after he refused to go. I did all I could
to persuade him,” I answered.
She looked long and steadily at me. Then she
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turned and went slowly below, and I saw her no
more on board. We ran in between the Chesapeake
Capes, and Jones, Ernest, and myself were soon
given our liberty.
I took command of a coaster running general
cargo to Havana, and before I sailed I received a
letter from New York. I read it over and over
many times on the run south, and finally decided to
call on the writer at the end of the return voyage.
But this matter has nothing further to do with the
last voyage of The Gentle Hand.
Sometimes I wonder at the end of all those former
shipmates of mine, all the strange, savage, and
kindly crew of that old, ill-fated barque. Even
Tim, the little American sailor, had a history.
Where are all those faces, the strong, bad, saturnine,
and jovial? They flit like phantoms through my
memory,--men who have gone before. I have
missed their voices often. In the deserted forecastle
of some large, home-arrived ship, I have more
than once half-expected to meet one or more of
that last crew I sailed with as a man before the
mast.
Far away offshore, in the middle of the southern
ocean, I have heard that strange voice of the sea
again, the low, far-reaching, vibrating murmur that
thrills the soul of the listener until each fibre of
his being responds. It is then the sailor realizes
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the vast world of rest and peace of the countless
crews who have gone before, and wonders as though
the cry came from some mighty invisible host, calling
through the void of air and sunshine. He thinks
of the men he once knew, and wonders. They were
good. They were bad. They were a mixture of
the two. But they were all human. And who shall
say where they have gone?
.ce
THE END.
.pb
.dv class='tnotes'
.ce
Transcriber’s Note
Compound words which occur at line or page breaks retain the hyphen
if supported by other mid-line instances of the same word.
Errors deemed most likely to be the printer’s have been corrected, and
are noted here. The references are to the page and line in the original.
The following issues should be noted, along with the resolutions.
.ta l:8 l:46 l:12 w=90%
| brought in a very substan[t]ial meal | Inserted.
| while the badly wounded, though[t] still undaunted | Removed.
.ta-
.dv-